


When the Magnolias bloom

by Flurry_X



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, CEO Castiel (Supernatural), Canon-Typical Violence, Carpenter Dean Winchester, Case Fic, Cheating, Demisexual Castiel (Supernatural), Denial of Feelings, Divorce, Explicit Sexual Content, Heavy Angst, Human Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Married Dean Winchester, Middle Aged Destiel, Minor Castiel (Supernatural)/Original Male Character(s), Minor Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Panic Attacks, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Protective Dean Winchester, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Woodworker Dean Winchester, dad dean winchester, idiots to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 129,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21864493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flurry_X/pseuds/Flurry_X
Summary: It's been ten years since the Apocalypse. Ten years without talking, without knowing one another. Castiel has a company to handle and a wedding to plan, Dean has a broken marriage and a decision to make. They have separate lives, lovers and families of their own, they aren't supposed to meet again, to mess it all up.And yet they do, when they least expect it, and maybe when they most need it.A story about second chances, about hope and resilience, and a love that feels both doomed and inevitable.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 854
Kudos: 504
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. Taking flight - Cas POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I'm FINALLY doing this, after nearly a year of writing this fic, I am posting it for all to see. I gotta say, I'm so so excited about this story, I'm proud of it and I really hope it'll find its audience.  
> The story is 95% complete, it will have 20 chapters in total and will be updating every weekend!
> 
> If you're looking for a 100k-ish fic, with slooooow burn and lots of angst and pining, with a happy ending, then you're in the right place. This is gonna have a hunt, a lot of sex, a lot of dumb decisions, and a couple of really cute kids. Also older Dean and Cas, finding love in each other when they're least expecting it.
> 
> HUGE THANKS to my two betas, eyesofatragedy and tipofmemory; honestly couldn't do this without people listening to me whine about plot points and convoluted sentences <3

It’s Wednesday and the city is fast; the sky is a slow, gray slate, pregnant with clouds, heavy. Everybody looks like they’ve got something to do, somewhere to go, something to hurry towards. San Jose is young and brimming with life, the way it is on its very best days.

The hustle and bustle of the Silicon Valley used to make Castiel excited, filled with a restless energy, his brain overflowing with ideas and possibilities, endless opportunities. Today, it just makes him tired, his throat dry and his head throbbing dull.

He knocks his head against the cool window of the car, watches the city happen frantic from behind the glass, head lulling against the glass a little as they weave through the late afternoon traffic.

“...right, babe? Babe?” He hears Evan’s voice drifting to him through the fog of his headache, realises he has likely been talking for a while.

“You okay?” Evan asks, hand reaching out to squeeze his knee. “Don’t worry about the flight; it won’t be that long.” There’s a tense little smile on his lips, and Castiel wants to feel reassured by it, but he feels annoyed instead. Evan keeps rambling on without waiting for a reply. “I’m still upset we couldn’t get you business class tickets. I swear these people screw five things up for every one they actually get right.”

“I’m not worried about the flight,” Cas sighs, rubbing his temples, fiddling with the air conditioning controls until it’s cold enough that he feels the sweat dry on his skin a little.  
“Just... long day. I’m not happy about that buy-out offer. I don’t think I should be leaving right now,” he says for what he thinks might be the millionth time.

“I understand,” Evan says, changing the air conditioning setting back to heat again, like Castiel isn’t sitting right there, skin clammy and lungs tight. A spike of irritation swipes through his body, head to toe.

 _But you don’t understand_ , he thinks, spitefully. And he knows he’s being unfair, knows it’s not Evan’s fault that he’s wound up so tight he feels like his spine is an old guitar chord, tense and brittle and about to snap at the faintest touch. He bites his lips to avoid snapping at him and starting an argument he won’t be able to finish.

“It’ll be good, Cassie. You’ll see,” Evan tells him, voice low and hand light on his knee. He sounds so sure, and it’s so easy to believe him, so he makes himself.  
Just like usual.

He takes a deep breath that rumbles into his chest, pictures himself sinking into the pillows of the hotel suite he knows his assistant must have booked him. Pictures himself relaxed and sleepy at the end of the day, heartbeat steady, skin dry, thoughts hushed.

It helps, just a little.

The airport is busy when they finally get there, and Evan doesn’t park the car, he keeps it running on the curb, and Castiel doesn’t mind. He gets out, takes his bags out of the trunk, fits his body through the windshield until he’s close enough to brush a light kiss on Evan’s cheek. He tastes his minty aftershave more than his skin, it’s bitter on his lips.

“Bye, I’ll text when I land,” he says through the open window. Then, softly, he taps on the roof of the car “Bye, Nicky,” he whispers.

There was a time when he could not understand humans’ love for objects, when naming a car seemed a little vain and a little silly; he distinctly remembers thinking it was strange. But that was before the Tesla. He tells himself that if there’s a car that actually deserves to be named and cherished, it’s one that can drive itself, and doesn’t feel apologetic about it.

“You’ll miss this silly car more than you’ll miss me,” Evan teases, mouth turned up at the corners, and it almost makes Castiel smile.

“Take good care of her, and don’t forget to email me the briefing tomorrow. I want to know how the everything is going while I’m away,” he says, eyes boring into his fiance’s.

Evan nods, and his mouth is a thin straight line, like he wants to say something but he’s holding back. There’s a pause, Castiel’s fingers clutching the open car door, muscles tense as he waits for Evan to decide what he wants to say, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Then someone honks, hurrying them up. Evan swallows his words, muscles tense, gives him a last little wave, and Castiel walks away, glad he can leave his words behind as he shuffles fast into the busy airport.

Getting through security is as gruesome as it’s always been, and he can’t help but scoff when a young woman in line behind him points out that this is still the fastest way to get to any place on Earth.  
It's not, and he knows. The knowledge of how fast he used to be; a flick of his wings and he would be surveying rolling hills and colorful planes, human life bustling on the streets so far below him, everyone looking like a tiny busy ant.  
It's something akin to pain, to remember what flying felt like, to know he'll never feel it again.  
If he had to describe it _-if he had anyone to describe it to-_ he would say it’s like dipping your toes in a muddy puddle after having bathed in the ocean.

When he’s finally allowed to board, his seat is a cramped, squeaky thing, and he struggles to remind himself how this could possibly be a good idea. He knows, logically, that he chose this, that he agreed with both Evan and his therapist when they told him he needed a break. If only he could feel that right now, stuffed tight into his seat and even tighter into his own skin.

He slouches, body folding up into the seat, knowing his face reflects his disdain, feeling the frown ridging his face right in the middle, but he doesn’t fight it. People will assume he’s just another grumpy traveller; he doesn’t mind, because maybe that’s really all he is.

He balls his hands as he stuffs them into the pockets of his jacket, fingers closing around a crumpled pamphlet. He takes it out slowly, smooths the ridges out so he can read it over again.  
_“‘Devil’s Thumb Ranch’ is the epitome of Texas getaway. Rustling pines, cozy leather armchairs, roaring fireplaces, sprawling meadows full of wildflowers — it’s just the place for a wedding retreat.”_

That pamphlet is the reason why he’s now sitting on this clunky plane, munching on complimentary peanuts and sipping on too-sweet soda.

“Look, babe, doesn’t it look kinda perfect?” Evan had said, weeks before, holding out the shiny pamphlet across the leather couch of his therapist’s studio.

Castiel had looked at her for confirmation before taking it, still feeling too raw, brain still too sluggish to really process any new information.

“Evan thinks you might benefit from a more involved approach to your wedding, Castiel,” she had said, kind brown eyes finding him from across the room.

Evan had nodded, his trademark self-assured smile spreading over his cheeks.

“Your panic attack was because of the big, bad wedding monster, right?” he had asked; and Castiel had wanted to interrupt and explain that, no, that wasn’t exactly true, but Evan had kept on barreling on. “So, I thought, we’ll change it. Do a small thing instead, in Texas, with my family,” he had said, fingers pushing the pamphlet in Castiel’s slack hand.

He had waited just a moment for him to take it and open it before talking again. “You can go down there, deal with everything in person, take a break from work and just think about planning it however you want,” he had added. “I already have your ticket; you don’t have to worry about anything, baby.”

At those words, there had been a tiny but sharp intake of breath from across the room, a shadow of a doubt passing over his therapist’s features before she could catch it.

“I- I don’t- Do you think it’s a good idea, Tess?” Castiel had asked then, feeling like the fog in his brain still hadn’t dissipated enough for him to make such decisions.

Her eyes had been kind and a little sad when she had asked him, “What do _you_ think Castiel? Do _you_ wish to take this trip? The choice should be yours, no one else’s,” she had said, pointedly.

“I guess-” he had started, but had never gotten to finish his thought because Evan’s voice had already been there, loud over his own.

“Come on, Cassie. Don’t you think a break from work would be good for you? You’ve been putting in 80 hour weeks lately; is it really that surprising that you snapped?” he had said, body pressing closer on the couch, a hand resting softly over Castiel’s knee. “Trust me, it’ll be good. My sister will be there, and she’ll help you plan everything. You don’t even have to look at a laptop screen until you get back. I’ll handle everything for you ”

His face had been so close then that it had been all Castiel could see, a horizon filled with Evan’s blue eyes, the sure tilt of his smile, and the weight of his fingers on Castiel’s knee.  
"Or you could always just sign those papers, hand over your shares to m- to the board and be done with all the stress of running a company altogether. That's always an option, you know I-"

"I believe Mr. Novak here has already discussed with you his decision not to hand over his shares of the company?" Tess’s voice had interrupted them then, turning Evan’s smile into a tight-lipped frown.

“Of course, of course” he had said, hand now slipping away from Castiel’s leg “I only want what’s best for him, and our company too. You know that, Cassie, don’t you?”

It had been easy to agree then, easy to blame any uncertainty on the lingering effects of his panic attack the night before.  
“I trust you,” he had said, fingers closing over Evan’s wrist; basking in the smile he had graced him with then. For a moment, everything had made sense, and just like that, before he could really make sense of it all, he had been on his way to Austin, Texas to plan his own wedding.

He sighs now, straining to recall the warm feeling Evan’s marriage proposal had first stirred in him, all those months ago. It seems so far away right now, like it belongs to a different life, a different Castiel.

He pictures the perfect little venue in the hills, pretty wildflowers and friends gathered and everything he’s supposed to want. Everything he has promised to want.

He pictures himself, navy suit, maybe a rose on his lapel, kissing Evan and promising him forever; he waits for the feeling of calm and contentment to wash over him, but it doesn’t come.

It’s just the plastic-y smell of the plane, of air that sits thin in his lungs. He can’t wait to be asleep again.

There’s a sheen of nervous energy thrumming restless on his clammy skin; he blames it on the traffic, on the late meeting, on the tie that’s squeezing his throat a little too tight. Everything is too tight. His skin, a thin sheet, stretched over his bones, squeezing them as they drag against one another, dull friction at every movement. He feels stiff, wound up too tight, head foggy, limbs heavy. He just wants to curl up somewhere warm and dark, hidden. The lights of the plane are all too bright, too white; it throbs behind his eyes when he catches sight of them, and he wishes for nothing but the warm comfort of sleep.

There’s a prickling in his neck, and he pictures his anxiety settling there like a vulture, its claws digging deep into his skin. It helps sometimes, to give his fear a face, a tangible body. He can picture himself pushing it away, its talons digging into his flesh as its wings flap, loud, in the air, useless. If he can see it, he can fight it; or that’s what he tells himself.

He breathes in the recycled air of the plane, once, twice; runs his fingers down the hem of his jacket, back and forth, back and forth, pretending it’s actually doing something to calm him down.

The hem of his pants is digging uncomfortably into his waist, and he wonders idly how inappropriate it would be for him to just pop the first button and let himself breathe. He wishes, not for the first time today, he would have argued with his board of directors when they insisted he could fit just one more meeting right before his flight.

A child screams some five rows behind him and the sound travels right into his head, rattling his brain inside his skull.

He sighs, feeling around his leather bag for the pills he knows he has stashed somewhere, fingers itching to close around the plastic, like his body knows relief is close.

The bottle is mostly empty where it sits innocently at the bottom of his bag. He stuffs his fingers inside, grabbing one pill and not letting himself count how many he has left. He needs this one to sleep, to get through the flight; he’ll start being good tomorrow.

The pill rolls quietly in his palm as he wonders if he still knows himself without it, without the suit, the meetings, the company, Evan. A voice in his head tells him that’s all he is, that there’s going to be nothing left of him once he takes those things away, and it scares him how easy it is for him to believe it.

His fingers slip a little over the condensation on his Coke can as he knocks the drink back in a gesture that he imagines to be slightly too dramatic, pill dragging a little in his throat as he swallows it down. Then he just waits for the chemically induced fuzziness to overtake his brain and drag him under.

-

Texas welcomes him with an evening that’s all clear blue sky and light breeze, and he almost believes this might not be a bad idea after all.

His shirt is rumpled where he folded himself into the seat, and he starts scrambling to fit it back into his dress pants, before he remembers there isn’t gonna be another meeting to rush to, no fancy dinner or opera date; he’s free and nobody is looking at him. He leaves his shirt untucked and messy and smiles at nobody, rebellious.

Evan doesn’t call him when he lands, but Castiel knows he’s busy; knows they’re not that kind of couple, who can’t go more than two hours without talking to each other. They’re both professionals, and they can’t be concerned with such small things.

He shoots him a text to let him know he has landed safely anyways, just in case.

There’s a town car waiting for him right at the airport. The driver holds up a sign that says Mr. Casteel Novak, and Castiel doesn’t correct him; that might as well be his name for the duration of his stay, for all he cares.

“Long flight, sir?” the driver asks him as they pull out of the parking lot and into the traffic of the interstate.

“You could say that,” he grumbles, rolling the window down just a bit to soak in air that isn’t stale and recycled.

“The hotel I am taking you to is very renowned; you’ll like it there, sir.” Castiel just hums in reply and hopes the man is right.

“I recommend checking out the bar. They have live music, piano I think. Many customers have told me how enjoyable it is,” he continues, eyeing him through the rearview mirror.

Castiel shrugs noncommittally, almost says he wants nothing more than being alone in the dark, and silence, rather than being surrounded by people he doesn’t know and doesn’t care about.

But the driver is kind and he smiles at him, so Castiel plasters a smile on his lips and says “Maybe”, and he almost believes it too.

The hotel room is just as fancy as he expected it to be, lush pillows and covers and a great view of the lights of the city. He takes a picture of the twinkling skyline and sends it to Evan, glances at the screen for a couple minutes, waiting for a reply that doesn’t come, and has to tell himself to stop acting like a teenager.

The shower doesn’t disappoint either when he finally stuffs himself in it, water pressure perfect, cascading over pearly tiles. He counts them idly as he washes the travel sickness out of his skin until he feels more like himself, whoever that is.

When he gets out, his phone is still dark and silent where it lays face up on the bed. He’s not surprised. The silence and the dark he was craving just hours before now feel like they’re crowding against him, thick and overbearing, stealing what little breath he has left in his lungs.  
Solitude suddenly doesn’t feel welcoming, but ominous, an empty, endless slate of fog and thoughts that are too heavy for his brain. He can see them crawling towards him, their endless little hands reaching out for him, closing around his throat, clenching the breath right out his lungs.

He eyes the bag discarded at the end of the bed, hands reaching out for the pills again.

The bottle is cold in his overheated hand, and it shakes a little as he trembles.

This is not how things are supposed to be going. He’s supposed to be relaxing, supposed to let go of all the things he’s holding on to so tightly he can almost feel his bones crack with the sheer pressure of it all.

The bottle drops with a thud when he finally releases his clutch on it, dropping it back into the bag and reaching out for a fresh change of clothes instead.

He needs people. He needs a drink. He can do this.

The bar isn’t crowded when he gets there, hair still a little damp from the shower, wearing dark suit pants and a white shirt that he leaves untucked just because he can.

The driver was right; there’s a piano, and a very talented young woman crooning about her long lost love. It’s easy to settle onto the wooden stool, let the bartender smile at him and talk him into ordering a cocktail with a fancy name.

“My own creation, my pride and joy,” he says with a wink when he places it down on the counter, liquid sloshing a little on the polished wood.

Castiel sits and sips and lets himself be empty, a hollow shell for the music to resonate through, nothing more. His head lulls a little as the notes echo in the space between his ribs, and he lets it. If he’s nothing else, at least he’s this, a medium for music to sweep through, a spectator.

The cocktail is sweet and tangy and it sits a little uncomfortably in his empty stomach, as he lets his eyes wander around the room, lazily observing his fellow bar patrons.

The song is coming to an end, soft notes blending with the idle chatter of the bar as the woman bows gently and announces a break. The absence of music now feels foreign to his ears -a light, cottony, buzzing in his head- when there’s the sound of the front door slamming open, heavy boots trailing on the polished wooden floors.  
He almost doesn’t look, but then the bartender is smiling at the newcomer, glancing sly over his shoulder, and he gets curious.

There’s a man walking to the other end of the bar, broad shoulders stretching a plaid flannel, dark blue jeans hugging the bow of his legs as he walks up to the counter.

Castiel lets his eyes linger for just a moment, blames the coil of interest on the alcohol buzzing under his skin. The man is tall, carries himself with an air of self-assurance that almost spills into arrogance. It’s in the straight set of his spine, in the tight hinge of his jaw, the deep, sure ramble of his voice as he orders a beer.

The bar is dimly lit, orange light bathing the man’s features in more shadows than lights, concealing more features than it’s revealing. Castiel keeps looking and he’s not sure why.

It’s his stomach to catch up first. It coils and drops at his feet with a dull thud, leaving him unbalanced.

He’s still trying to figure out what his body is doing, when the man turns to the side, laughing softly at something the bartender just said, and Castiel can finally see his whole face, lips stretched into a dimpled smile, cheeks scrunched up in a laugh.

It can’t be. Not him. Not here.

Suddenly it’s an avalanche of flashing memories; Heaven, Hell, the Apocalypse, a shitty motel room in St. Louis, a shittier bar, and Him. The Sword. The Righteous One.

Dean Winchester.

_Dean._

His knuckles go white where he’s clutching the counter too tight, a breath caught in his lungs like a fly in a spider’s nest, heart shoving against the confines of his sternum, like it wants to jump out.

He’s older, he realizes with dumb surprise. Like Dean was supposed to stay immaculate, fossilized like he is in his memories. His soul shiny and glorious and lush green.

There are laugh lines around his eyes now, dark stubble over his cheeks, more freckles on his tanned cheeks.

He’s every bit as beautiful as Castiel remembers him to be, and he’s there, in front of him, solid and warm and magnetic.

And Castiel is weak.

He sucks in a breath that feels too small for his lungs, ears ringing a little as the woman starts singing again, another love song Castiel won’t be listening to.

He follows his feet when they hurry, soft and fast, towards Dean, heartbeat thrumming in his temples, in his bones, in his mouth. Until he’s so close he can smell him, until he can see that his eyes are still the same shade of green they were so long ago.

“Hello, Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! Thank you so much for reading this far!
> 
> I know there's next to no deancas in this chapter but I had to set the stage a little and everything in Cas's life at this point will prove to be important later, I promise.
> 
> For those who are turned off by the "cheating" tag; I know it can be an off-putting topic, and I don't condone it, but Dean and Cas's actions and choices in this story are, I feel, relatable and understandable. I've tried not to throw anyone under the bus just for the sake of it, but to explore the complexities of different relationships. If anyone still has questions/concerns about this I'll be happy to answer!
> 
> Please do let me know if you enjoyed this, or even if you didn't, I'd LOVE to hear your thoughts, I thrive on comments and kudos and reader interaction! 
> 
> I have to decide if I wanna update on Fridays or Saturdays, you guys lemme know what you prefer <3 or subscribe so you never miss one either way! 😂


	2. Memories - Dean POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, first Dean chapter! POV is going to be alternating in each chapter so beware of that!  
> The boys finally get to talk in this one, hope you enjoy <3
> 
> As usual, big thanks to my betas, eyesofatragedy, and tipofmemory, you guys are the best!

**> Garth (RECEIVED 20:24)**  
**-Sorry bud**  
**-Got caught up**  
**-Can’t make it**

“Damn it, man,” Dean huffs under his breath. Of course Garth would send his ass to a fancy bar just to bail on him last minute. He eyes the outside of the place for a second, an expensive hotel he can’t see himself ever staying at, already feeling out of place in his flannel and scuffed up jeans. They’re the nice ones, dark denim fitting tight over his legs, good enough for a carpenter meeting his clients, but likely not good enough for an upscale piano-bar like this one.

**> Garth (RECEIVED 20:25)**  
**-You should still go**  
**-Enjoy the finer things in life for once**

He kind of wants to tell the man to go fuck himself, kind of wants to go check out the place since he’s already made the effort to find parking downtown. He sighs as he shoves the phone back in his jeans, might as well get himself at least a beer at this point.

Resolved to spend his night at the bar, he retrieves his small sketchbook from the glovebox. It’s a small, battered thing, but it’ll do for now. There’s a couple of ideas for a set of oak chairs floating in his head, and he needs to see how they look when he actually puts them on paper.

The bar is as upscale as he had imagined, but also warm, inviting, as he strides towards the counter, itching to sit down and have a drink in his hand already. There’s a young bartender smiling at him as soon as he finds an empty stool, eyes sweeping interested and a little shameless over his body in a way that almost makes Dean flush.

“Hey, man, I’ll have a beer; whatever IPA you got on tap,” he says, 'cause it’s a safe choice. He watches the guy pour him one and feels more relaxed as the glass fills up. Soon the cool glass is in his palm, and with every new sip he feels like he belongs a little more.

The sketchbook is open in front of him on a blank page, ready for him to draw, when a woman, a singer, Dean realizes, walks to the piano. He watches her, mesmerized by the way the sequins on her dress catch the light, shimmering like a mirage on her sparkly dress as she walks up slowly to the microphone.

She starts singing an old Elvis song; the hair on Dean’s neck raises up in a soft wave of goosebumps, and it takes him a couple bars to place it. When he does it’s with the picture of Lisa’s face, his nose buried in her dark hair, smelling like jasmine, as she swayed against him, hands curling under his suit, her wedding dress sweeping low on the floor as they danced in the center of the room, all eyes on them, the loving couple.

He hadn’t wanted the song, had thought it too sappy, but Lisa had liked it. She had kissed him quick and sweet, told him he could add one Zeppelin song to their playlist in exchange, so he agreed. It had been easy, light like a smile, warm like a hug.

The memory is a sweet one, and he almost feels it like a real thing in his mouth, an overwhelming sweetness that has already turned sour on his tongue.

He clutches his fingers around the glass, takes a sip and as the bitter drink chases the sweetness down into his chest, he pretends it’s enough.

“Hello, Dean.”

Suddenly there’s a voice in Dean’s ears, a raspy gravel that scrapes him all the way through; it seeps through the soft piano music, nestles in his head, seeps down into his chest, where there’s something tender that thrums softly in recognition.

It’s a voice coming from a million years before, reaching out through time and space, through the clutter of years and age and choice.

He turns slowly, the movement deliberate, like he’s not truly sure he wants to see who the voice belongs to. Like he’s afraid it might not be _him_.

He turns, and it is him. The Angel.

Castiel.

_Cas_.

A shock of dark messy hair, a shirt that looks too tight and too expensive, eyes so blue and so deep Dean feels himself sinking into them.

Dean’s mouth is dry where it lulls open in shock.

Castiel’s eyes crinkle at the corner a little where he’s smiling big and true, and Dean takes a breath that burns his lungs all the way down.

“Cas?” he rasps out, voice tight, thin at the edge.

“Dean. It’s been a long time,” Cas nods, hair falling on his forehead, and Dean wants to reach out and sweep it away from his eyes.

“Yeah- yeah, you can say that,” Dean hears himself say, the rumble of a shocked laugh rolling through his words.

Someone bumps into him from behind and they apologize. But he doesn’t really hear it; it’s like someone has turned the volume down in his head, all his senses sharpened and dulled at the same time, as they focus on the man standing in front of him, a beacon of light. And Dean is like a moth to his flame.

He can’t keep his eyes from him; he knows he’s staring but he doesn’t care, because Castiel is staring right back, eyes raking curious and hungry over Dean, giving as good as he’s getting.

“You guys know each other?” the bartender interrupts them, a hip cocked to the side, watching them curiously. His voice sounds like it’s coming from a million miles away, from another plane of existence, one which isn’t of any relevance.

“We’re old friends,” Cas says, his smile settling into something smaller, more wistful, eyes still twinkling in the golden light, not leaving Dean’s.

“Well, that calls for a celebratory drink, I’d say. On the house,” the bartender says, flitting away to go fetch their drinks. Dean has never given less of a fuck about anything in his whole life.

“You’re smaller than I remembered,” he blurts out suddenly, the words a little jumbled together where they fall out of his mouth all in a rush.

Cas huffs a shocked laugh, right eyebrow cocking on his forehead in disbelief. Dean feels himself blushing deep into his chest.

“I mean- I just, y’know. Been a long time,” he stammers out, feeling like an idiot for some reason he can’t really pinpoint. He takes a sip of beer to shut himself up.

Cas just laughs, eyes gentle, settles a hand on his shoulder, heavy and warm, and Dean feels the warmth of it all the way down to his gut.

“Dean, it’s quite alright,” Castiel says, easily, and Dean can’t get over the raspy sound of his voice. “I mean, technically, you’re right, you know. Not the size of the Chrysler Building anymore,” he says softly, mouth curled into a self-deprecating little smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Dean doesn’t know what to say to that, so he stays silent, watches Cas’s hand where it slips away from his shoulder. Feels it linger just a second too long, but doesn’t address that either.  
He pulls the stool right next to him instead, and it feels good to be doing something with his hands at last.

Cas settles next to him, elbows bumping together a little when they both lean on the counter.  
The bartender comes back with his easy smiles and free drinks and tells them to make the most of it with a wink.

Dean feels like there’s something he should say to that, some kind of clarification he should offer, but the guy is gone again in a flurry before he can find the words.

It’s both unsettling and familiar, to be sitting with Cas like this, so close, tucked into the empty space next to Dean. Close and just shy out of reach. Just like old times.

They keep stealing glances at each other, neither of them managing to be subtle about it; but really, it’s been years, who would blame them.

Dean had buried any thoughts of him, of them, in a box, with all the other things from his life _before_ , never to be opened, never to be looked at again.

Before Lisa and Ben, before the twins, and a rusty truck, and woodworking tools in his calloused hands. Before he was a life among many others, nothing different, nothing special about him, just a regular Joe with his apple pie life going sour. Nobody’s concern but his own.

There was a time when him, and Sam, and Cas, they all stood shoulder to shoulder, right in the eye of the storm, comrades, the most important men in all of Creation.  
Dean has had to forget about all that, clinging to his second chance at a normal life with teeth and nails and bloody knuckles, no space for reminiscing about blue eyes swelling with grace.

“So, uh, what brings you here?” Dean asks, because the memories of another life are already crowding his brain and he wants to be here instead, where those memories don’t matter, where it’s just him, the man he used to be, talking to an old friend he had forgotten to miss for such a long time. It’s a starting point like any other.

“I’m staying at the hotel,” Castiel replies simply, his mouth a thin line, like there are more words pressing from behind his lips, and he’s holding them back. “What about you? You staying here too?” he asks.

“Uh, no, no. Too fancy for me, man. Was gonna meet a friend here for drinks, but he bailed.” Dean is kinda glad he did, but he doesn’t say that.

There’s a beat of silence as they sip their drinks, something smoky and peppery that settles low in Dean’s gut.

“So, Austin... pretty far from Lawrence,” Castiel starts, voice raised a little to be heard over the music, his eyes squinting in the dim light. Dean nods.  
“You were in Kansas last time I saw you,” he adds, glancing sideways at him, long fingers curled around the glass.

“You- What?” Dean stammers a little, feels a cold prickling like distrust curling right in his ribs.

Castiel grimaces just so, whole body twitching like caught in a fishing line. When he speaks again he looks as if he’s regretting every word that comes out of his mouth.

“When I was brought back, when God brought me back, I- well, I didn’t know how to be human, I suppose. So I did the only thing that made sense at the time. I sought you out,” he says, his smile now a small, sad thing, turned down at the corners.

“Cas, I didn’t-”

“You didn’t know. I’m aware. I never told you,” Cas says, face turning towards him now “I just. I saw you, your house, your family. You had settled down, and I- I couldn’t do that to you, Dean,” Cas says with a tenderness in his eyes that Dean can’t really let himself look at. “After all you had been through, you deserved a peaceful life. I couldn’t bear to be the one to take that away from you.”

Dean scoffs. If Castiel only knew the extent to which he has fucked up his peaceful little life. If he only knew about the nightmares and the yelling, voices hoarse and fists clenched, a marriage like peeling wallpaper, cheap, and faded, begging to be ripped apart already. He doesn’t say any of that.

“We looked for you, y’know, me ‘n Sam,” he rasps out. “You- you were family, man; you gotta know that,” he says, voice low, deep, so he doesn’t lose control of it.

Cas looks at him with a soft longing that feels raw and naked and just plain too much.

“I know. I’m sorry,” he says, doesn’t offer any of the answers Dean so badly wants to hear.

“Must’ve been hard, being on your own like that.” Dean can hear the barely concealed resentment in his own voice but can’t do anything to stop it. “Shit, I thought- I thought you were dead, Cas.”

“Dean, I’m-”

“You’re sorry, yeah, so you’ve said,” he sighs, because the conversation is already spiraling away from him, away from the present and right into the drain of long-gone hang-ups. “Damn it, Cas, this ain’t nothing like how I pictured finding you again.”

“You- you pictured this?” Cas frowns, eyes wide and blue.

“Doesn’t matter now,” the words are barely a whisper past his lips, and he wonders if Cas has even heard them. “Just glad you’re alright, man,” he settles on eventually.

“Yes. I- I’m doing good now, I guess. I mean, I am. I know I am.” Cas smiles, a small but assured thing Dean has never seen on him before. It makes him even more curious; he wants to know everything, and he wants to know it now, past be damned.

They keep talking, and the bartender keeps bringing them smiles and drinks; and Dean feels loose and warm, interesting in a way he hasn’t felt in so long he can barely remember when the last time was.

Castiel looks at him like he wants to know everything about him, like he has never seen anyone more fascinating than Dean and his little boring, scruffed up life.

Dean can’t get enough of him, of this, of his rough voice and his squinting eyes, the way they go all wide with excitement as he tells Dean all about his company and the changes they have been making in eco-technology. He talks about solar panels and green energy and damned honey bees and how they have to be saved; and Dean misses the point half of the time, but he finds himself interested and invested nonetheless, leaning into Castiel’s enthusiasm like a curious child.

Dean finds himself getting dragged into the other man’s enthusiasm, as he starts talking and talking too, hands gesturing wildly between them because it makes Castiel laugh and Dean kinda wants to keep hearing the sound over and over, until it’s familiar.

He’s in the middle of telling Castiel about his new project, sketchbook open between them, when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

He takes it out of his jeans slowly, already irritated at having to interrupt his conversation.

Lisa’s name flashes on the screen, and suddenly there’s a lump in Dean’s throat that wasn’t there just a second ago.

He flashes an apologetic smile at Castiel and fixes his eyes on the polished wood of the counter as he answers the call.

“Hey,” he says, voice a little rough.

“Dean, it’s Ben. He’s- he’s gone again,” Lisa’s voice huffs through the speaker, cutting through his comfortable cloud of thoughts. She’s more annoyed than she’s worried, he knows. “You need to talk to him,” she adds when he just sighs.

“Lisa, we’ve talked about this. Guy’s basically an adult; we can’t stop him from doing what he wants. You can’t- you can’t keep him in 'cause you disagree with him,” he says, tucking himself away from Castiel and his curious stare.  
The careful image of brilliance he has constructed through the night already slipping from his shoulders, like a worn out and tired cape he was never meant to wear. He feels small, old, tired, the excitement of the night already fading in his chest, to be replaced with a familiar sense of dull frustration; a tightness in his head, his ribs, words squeezing through his tight throat.

Lisa is silent for a beat, then launches into a tirade that Dean knows already, one he has listened to over and over in the past few months.

“It wouldn’t hurt you to support me on this for once, you know. You don’t stop being his father just because you moved away, that’s-”

“You know that’s not what this is about; you just- ”

There’s a cry at the other end of the line, a little shriek that Dean recognizes as May’s, and his chest tightens and expands suddenly, a pang of longing so strong he has to take another sip and let the alcohol dull it until it’s a distant throb in his ribs.

“You know what, I shouldn’t have called. It’s not like I didn’t know what you were gonna say. I don’t know why I keep trying at this point,” Lisa whispers in the receiver, and her voice manages to sound both angry and broken at the same time, and Dean feels the sting of her disappointment deep into his gut.

He pictures her, curled on the couch, feet wrapped into the purple blanket she likes; May climbing on her, squeezing her tiny body between Lisa’s back and the couch, reaching for the phone, hearing Dean’s voice.

“Liz, come on, you know I-” he starts but doesn’t really know how to finish “I’ll talk to him again, okay?” he rasps, wanting to be done with the discussion, wanting to sink back into his fog of old memories, where everything was brighter, comforting, blue and clear and easy.

“Just, can I say hi to her?” he whispers, despising the tremble that runs through his voice, the doubt, the longing.

There’s a shuffle at the other end of the line, like Lisa is shifting away from the couch, away from the kids. Dean’s heart drops before she even speaks.

“Dean, we’ve talked about this. You know she gets sad when she hears your voice. I’m just trying to get her to sleep; we can’t do this right now. I just need her to sleep, she just- she doesn’t understand that you’re gone. It’s better this-”

“It’s better this way,” he finishes for her, bitterness seeping through his every word before he can stop himself.

He can feel the conversation spiraling into their usual mess already, and himself with it. A black riptide that’s just lazy and tired repetition at this point, and he doesn’t have the energy to change course.

“I’m sorry,” Lisa says, and she sounds exhausted; she sounds sincere. Dean wishes he could reach out to her, touch her where she’s still raw and tender for him, where she listens, and she understands. “Just- Please talk to him. I’ve got my hands full here, you know that.” There’s a pause, like she’s evaluating something, silence balancing on the edge of a decision. “If you call back tomorrow morning you can say hi to the twins; they’ll be happy to hear from you,” she concludes, voice tight but gentle, a little tender, with the edge off. Dean is torn between being grateful and bitter.

There’s a hole in his chest where he howls for his kids, for their sticky hands and toothy smiles. He closes his eyes and wishes he could hold them.

“Yeah, yeah, sounds good,” he rasps, chest heavy as he drags his eyes back to where Castiel is stealing glances at him, not nearly as sneaky as he’s trying to be. “‘Night, Liz,” he says and ends the call.

There’s a beat of silence as he thumbs the phone, screen dark and lifeless, both a barrier and a connection. He pockets it again, takes a drink that fills his mouth with liquid rather than words.

“How’s she?” Castiel asks, voice kind and a little uncertain, like he can feel how this is uncharted territory.

The muscles in Dean’s neck all stiffen at the same time, jaw clenching around a burst of annoyance. It feels weird, to be talking about Lisa with Castiel, who’s a ghost from the past, nothing more. Someone who doesn’t know the man Dean has made himself grow into, the things he has cluttered around himself to fill his life, to give it meaning. He doesn’t know how hard Dean has tried to hold onto a sense of purpose, white-knuckled and feverish, until he had destroyed every good, delicate thing that had tried to touch him.

And Dean doesn’t want to tell him about his failures, about the mess. He longs for that curious stare; and he knows it’s not for him, not the present him, messy and broken and purposeless as he is. It’s for the Dean he was, so long ago, a different man, a different life, one he can tell himself he doesn’t miss as much as he does, but one that comes back to haunt him again and again.

“She’s good,” he lies then, and if Castiel can read between the lines, he doesn’t say; he just nods, lets Dean swim in the comfort of his lies.

Silence wraps around them both then, and it’s sticky and too tight all of sudden. Dean feels like a fraud, sitting at this bar, giving all his time and attention to this man he should have forgotten about long ago. All the while his son is messing things up with a girlfriend he doesn’t approve of, and his wife is lonely and angry on the couch they picked together so long ago.

Suddenly he feels wrong, throat clenching around words he can’t say, and he needs to get away from this bar and from the stark gaze Castiel is giving him.

It’s still early enough that he can call Ben and try to reason with him, find out what he’s up to. He always listens to him more than he does Lisa. Maybe he can convince him to go back home, he thinks, and he can have something to show Lisa. Something that can say _Look, I’m a good husband, I can do this, take me back, make me whole._

“I should go,” he says, knocking back the last sip of his drink, and the glass rattles on the counter when he slams it on it too roughly.

Castiel recoils a little, his shoulders stiffening, like he’s composing himself up again, reminding himself he’s not supposed to be this loose with Dean.

“Of course. Family duties. Don’t let me keep you,” he says, a little too fast and a little too tight, eyes dropping from Dean’s eyes, to his mouth, to his hands. “It was nice seeing you again, Dean. Really nice,” he says, dragging his palms on his thighs, an automatic, soothing motion, as he smiles at him ruefully.

“Yeah. We, uh-” Dean is already standing up, fingers curled around his jacket.

Castiel has turned a little in his seat and is looking at him like he knows he’s about to bail on him. Dean wants to stay. Wants to tangle his legs around the stupid stool and listen to Cas tell him about bees dying for five more years.

“We can continue this tomorrow, y’know. I mean, if you- if you’re free? I wanna know more about those bees,” Dean grins, and it comes easy.

Castiel smiles and exhales in the same beat, looking relieved as he fishes his own phone from where it was nestled in the pocket of his tight, fancy pants.

It’s a thin and sleek thing, no case, just a black slate, polished like in the commercials. It’s a big contrast to Dean’s brick of a phone, glass cracked at the corner where he dropped it on the rough shop floor a while ago, thick plastic case, bulging with his cards, filled with scribbles from that one time he left the twins unsupervised with a Sharpie.

Such small details that still make Dean wonder what Castiel’s life looks like, how different it is from his own, and if a few days will be enough to fill in the blanks of all the years they spent building lives and not thinking about each other.

Castiel is still smiling a little as he offers his phone for Dean to put his number in, reaching out to do the same. He doesn’t comment on the abysmal state of Dean’s technology, and he’s grateful for that.

“Guess I’ll see you around then,” he says, thumbing the corner of his phone case.

Castiel smiles, curls his fingers in a little wave. “Goodnight, Dean.”

***

The truck is waiting for him in the parking lot when he makes himself walk out of the bar, warmth and music lingering on his skin as he leaves them behind.

It’s a rusty thing, an old Ford F-150, rescued a lifetime ago from Bobby’s after everything had gone to shit. It ain’t much to look at, Dean knows, red paint peeling away in places, trunk filled with his heavy tools, scraps of cool wood and random supplies. Ben’s soccer kit laying somewhere deep in the rear seats from his after-school experiment of a few months back.

The truck is boxy, scratched and patched, rusty and dusty in all the places where the Impala was shiny and sleek.

He drags a hand slow on the handle, key digging in with a flick of his wrist, a small curl of nostalgia nipping him right at the throat at the thought of his Baby; of the road crunching fast under her wheels, of Sam’s head lulling heavy on the window.

He blames it on the beer, on the blue of Castiel’s eyes. Too deep, too liquid, pulling him into a riptide from the past, until there’s salt in his lungs and it’s in his eyes too, and every gulp of air stings in his chest.

Dragging a hand over his face, he steels himself back into the image of self-assurance he’s used to projecting, and tells himself he can really feel it this time. Almost believes himself for a second, as he climbs into the truck and out of the parking lot.

Windows down, music turned off, because his thoughts are loud and there’s a lump in his throat that he’s struggling to swallow down, he resolves to do the right thing and call Ben.

He answers on the second try, voice annoyed and a little slurred, and Dean pictures him, heavy-lidded and scowling, wrapped around that girlfriend of his, high as a kite.

There’s no reasoning with him when he’s like this, angry and rebellious, self-assured in a way that only a young man can be. Dean can’t even blame him that much; he gets good grades, stays out of trouble; just has a really great sense for picking girlfriends his mom will hate.

He tells him to call Lisa, go visit home for the weekend, and to bring the girlfriend if he needs to; things will be fine.

Dean isn’t sure he believes that himself, not when he’s three states away, driving around aimlessly in a city he barely knows, in a truck that sputters and coughs and veers to the right a little too much. But Ben mellows out, calls him ‘Dad’, asks him when he’s coming back, and he’s sincere when he says he misses him.

The lump in Dean’s throat is bigger when he finally ends the call, but that’s just how things are sometimes, and he’s learned to make do.

He drives out to Garth’s cabin, cars around him getting more and more sparse as he drives deeper into the woods, out of the city. It’s a small thing, the bare bones of a house, and it’s all he needs right now. A quiet place, corners dark and dusty, solitude and respite.

The phone buzzes in his pocket as he sinks on the old, lumpy couch, sketchpad open on his knees as he works his energy into a new project. He wonders if Ben is still awake, before checking the screen.

**> Cas (RECEIVED 23:02)**  
**-It was nice seeing you tonight, Dean**  
**-Unexpected, but nice**

The words blink at him, bright and stark against the dull light of the cabin. There’s a smile curling at the edge of his lips, a small thing; he lets it unfurl on his face and for the first time in a long time, it reaches his eyes.

_< Cas (SENT 23:02)_  
_-Yes, it was_

He replies, faster than he should have, but not finding it in himself to care. Fingers still on the screen for just a moment, a jolt of eagerness buzzing through his skin before he can stop it.

_< Cas (SENT 23:03)_  
_-Drinks tomorrow? I know a place_

He adds, feeling a little daring.

Castiel replies instantly, a resounding yes that makes Dean feel more excited than he’d like to admit.

When he falls asleep that night, it’s with thoughts of the open road, the Impala’s wheels churning the asphalt, wind in his hair and a Zeppelin song humming through the speakers. A dark figure curled on the passenger seat, and Dean can’t see his face, but he knows he’s smiling, clear eyes squinting in the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much dialogue in this one (at least for my standards), changed it a million and one times, but I really really hope I finally got to a point where their actions and motives are understandable.
> 
> About Lisa; she's not gonna be the baddie in this story, her relationship with Dean is messy and complicated, they have conflicting feelings for each other at this point and I'm going to portray that, but there isn't going to be any character bashing!
> 
> Kudos and comments absolutely make my day, it's like Christmas day all over again, and I'm so excited to hear what you guys think about this one!! Constructive criticism also welcome, honestly, I just wanna hear it all =)
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed it, Happy Holidays to everyone! <3


	3. Just a taste - Cas POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! It's the most wonderful day of the week, new chapter!  
> Back to Cas's POV, bunch of wedding stuff, some wine, some pie, and a new character, enjoy <3
> 
> Again thanks to my betas, eyesofatragedy and tipofmemory, who helped immensely with this chapter!

The hotel room is warm and cozy when Castiel wakes up, body pleasantly sunk into the mattress, pillows piled all around, like he fashioned himself a mock body, a pillow Evan to hug and warm him through the night. It’s ironic, he thinks, rolling away to sprawl in the center of the bed, considering how the two of them have never really fallen asleep tangled together.

There’s sun on his skin, warming him up slowly through the parted curtains, and he looks at the dust swirling through the shadows as he blinks himself awake.

The clock on his phone tells him it’s barely past six am, a little later than he usually wakes up to go to work. A sigh rolls off his mouth as he pictures Evan, sticking to their morning routine for the both of them; he wonders if he remembered to turn off the coffee machine before leaving the house, if he’s gonna cook himself some breakfast, like Castiel likes to do, or if he’s stopping for a smoothie on the way instead. He figures he should text him and check, but it doesn’t feel like the kinda thing Evan would appreciate.  
He wastes just a moment wondering about Dean then, knowing his routine is probably so different from what he’s used to, the same spark of curiosity he felt the night before now warming up his chest from the inside out.

There’s still time for him to fall back asleep, take advantage of his free time the way Evan and his therapist probably want him to, and yet he doesn’t, his sleep a fickle and restless creature that refuses to settle back down once roused.  
Crusty eyes and a heavy chest are all the armor he gets to face a day that he knows to be open, empty. Immediately he feels himself a little adrift, directionless. He has to remind himself to embrace it rather than fight it.

Suddenly there’s a loud buzzing coming from the bedside table, and when he stretches to silence it he finds his phone reminding him there’s a winery he’s supposed to check out today with Erin, Evan’s sister. He wishes the pang in his chest was one of excitement, but he has to admit it feels a lot more like dread.

Evan hasn’t called yet, but his assistant has emailed the complete briefing from the morning meeting and he jumps right on it, all thoughts of relaxation already flown right out of his head.

As soon as he’s done reading it, he wishes he had never left California.

“There will always be a project to deal with, an issue to fix; you can’t wait for things to be perfect before you take some time for yourself,” his therapist had said, and at the time it made sense. Now, miles away, staring at an email detailing how some big corporation seems to be fixated on acquiring his own company, taking a break suddenly feels like the worst possible thing he could have done.

He breathes in deep, holds it in his lungs for five seconds, breathes out for another five, like he’s been taught; starving the anxiety off before it has a chance to really settle in his guts, where he knows it will twist and turn, ugly and slimy.

He focuses on his body, bringing his mind back inside the safe blanket of his skin, the way his therapist has taught him.

His fingers still shake a little when he drags them over his temples, willing away the headache that is already forming.  
The temptation to seek out his pills and their artificial relief is strong, but he fights it, reminds himself they’re supposed to be for emergencies only and this isn’t one, not yet.

“Focus on the things you know, don’t let yourself spiral, don’t get caught into the what-ifs,” he whispers to himself, hands on his chest to feel it go up and down in a steady rhythm.

He’s the founder, if he doesn’t want to sell, nobody can make him.

Evan is in charge and Evan knows him, loves the company as much as he does.

Things are fine.

Don’t spiral.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

The exercise helps somewhat, and it’s enough for his hands to become steady enough and type out a response. He lets Evan know he’s against selling out, even adds a ten point bullet list with all the reasons why they should remain independent, just in case a high-tier employee tries to question their choice.

He wishes, not for the first time, he could tell them all how this company, its goals, they’re the only reason why he’s still alive and functioning. How feeling like he is making a difference with his technology is the only way he can make himself be okay with being human, kicked out of the literal “Grand Scheme”. It stings that he can’t share any of his vast past with them, not even with the man closest to him, and it’s an ache he has learned to be familiar with.

He still feels better once he’s done, clear-headed enough to force his body and his brain back into the present moment; back on his goal, to relax, to get better.  
Evan's sister hasn't texted him yet and he doesn't want to be the one to make the first connection. He'd rather bask in this suspended moment of freedom and calm and tainted nostalgia he has been feeling since he caught sight of Dean’s green eyes from across the counter last night. He wants to float in it for as long as he can.

He orders room service for breakfast and then tries to do the yoga exercises Evan seems to be so fond of, but ends up getting more irritated than relaxed, his mind too busy to be emptied in meditation.

When his phone buzzes again, taking him away from the exercise, he’s almost grateful for the distraction.

Erin sounds apologetic when he answers her call, tells him she needs to go pick up her kids from school and won’t be able to accompany him to the wine tasting, but she looks forward to meeting him soon. It’s easy to tell her that it’s okay, not a big deal; because it isn’t, and he’d much rather spend the day on his own than with a woman he’s never met before.

He’s in the middle of googling where exactly the winery is and if he should rent a car, when he realizes there’s someone else he knows in the city, and he’s likely to be much better company than Erin. There’s barely a second of hesitation before he pulls up Dean’s contact on his phone and starts composing a message.

It takes him three different tries in the end, to settle on a text that sounds friendly enough, but hopefully not coming on too strongly, like he knows he can do sometimes.

After five full minutes of fretting over it, he makes himself send it.

_< Dean (SENT 10:23)_   
_-Good Morning, Dean. Are you free for a winery tour later today?_

There isn’t enough time for him to second guess his request or his wording before his phone is ringing in his palm, Dean’s name flashing on the screen.

“A winery?” Dean’s voice grumbles through the speaker, confused maybe but friendly. Castiel feels the tension unfurling in his chest just a little at the sound.

“Yes, a winery. It’s supposed to be somewhere around.. Just a sec- Highway 290?” he says, because he’s already forgotten most of the actual address.

“Yeah, guess that makes sense. There’s a bunch of ‘em along the way.” There’s a beat of silence where Dean seems to be looking for words. “Wineries, though? Explain it to me, man; I’m confused. Is that what you’re in town for? Something for your company?” he settles on eventually, curiosity evident in his voice.

It takes Castiel just a moment to consider the question, to remember he hasn’t told Dean anything about his private life yet, wedding included. He chooses to be direct.  
“A wedding, actually,” he replies simply, and he wants to deny it, but there’s a wisp of apprehension already fogging up in his lungs.

“Oh nice. Whose? Anyone I know?”

“Mine, actually,” Castiel deadpans and he can feel the cautious edge on his own voice.

There’s a small sharp sound through the speaker, like Dean has just choked on his breath a little, before he speaks again.

“Oh. That’s- That’s neat, bud, congrats. Who’s the lucky lady then?”

“His name is Evan. He’s not particularly lucky either, I don’t think at least.”

“Oh. Yeah. ‘Course. That’s great. Yeah. Awesome.” Dean’s voice is still friendly but the fumbling is hard to miss, and it confuses Castiel, a cold curl of fear that Dean might not be okay with this, that last night might be all there is ever going to be in their newfound friendship.

“You seem surprised. Is that going to be a problem?” Cas challenges him then, because he needs to know.

“Come on, gimme a break here, man. This is all news to me. I’m happy though- I’m happy for you.” Dean says eventually, and his words ring true. Castiel relaxes.

“Thank you, you’d be surprised how many people can still be bigoted about that sort of thing. Humans and gender, never really got what the fuss was about to be honest,” he grumbles a little, chest now lighter than it has been the whole morning.

“Yeah, uh- it’s all good,” Dean huffs a half laugh through the phone “Listen I- I gotta get back to work, but I’ll be done by lunch and then I’m free for this wine thing. I can come pick you up at the hotel?”

“Yes, that’d be wonderful, thank you Dean,” he says, and he doesn’t expect the warmth that spreads through his chest then, but he welcomes it nonetheless.

“You got it, Cas. See you later,” Just like that, Castiel’s day is looking completely different. He can’t help but smile.

The day moves both too slow and too fast after that; Dean texts him again, late afternoon, telling him to be ready in an hour or so.

He frets a little too much on what to wear, not able to justify it even to himself, knowing it doesn’t really matter. Except it does, and he wants to look good, prove to Dean he has made it this far, on his own. Wants to show him the successful man he is today, make him forget the awkward creature he used to be. He craves his approval like a father’s, wants to present his life, unfurl it in front of Dean’s eyes and see if it’ll be enough to make him proud. It’s silly and vain and he knows it, and he can’t stop himself from wanting it all the same.

It’s a dark blue shirt he settles on eventually, one that Evan hates because it’s too large and a little shapeless on him. But it’s soft and worn and gives him a strange comfort he’s not really able to define.

Dean is leaning against a red truck when he finally gets out of the hotel. Legs crossed, back leaning heavy against the car. He’s wearing a green flannel and sunglasses, and his freckles seem to multiply under the gentle glare of the late spring sun.

It’s different like this, meeting in the daylight, on purpose, like they still have a reason to see each other, something in common, a thread linking their lives together.

“Hey,” Dean greets him softly, nodding his head.

“What happened to Baby?” he finds himself asking as he approaches, the picture of young Dean, cocky smile on his lips, leaning on the sleek black car suddenly vivid again in his mind.

“Sitting in the garage, back home. She wasn’t really a family car, y’know,” Dean says, shrugging his shoulders, looking down at the ground like it doesn’t really matter. Castiel thinks it does, knows it would matter to the Dean he knew- the brash, ruthless, proud man he had been drawn to so many years ago.

He almost says it, then thinks that maybe he doesn’t really know who Dean is and what matters to him nowadays.

“Buckle up. Rusty over here drives a little rough,” Dean says, gesturing at the old truck and opening the door for him.

He settles in the passenger seat, a creaky, dusty thing, and lets himself look around, eyes instinctively seeking any shred of information they might get on Dean and his new life.

There’s a picture tucked neatly in the folded mirror. Castiel reaches for it before he can ask himself if it’s the polite thing to do. It probably isn’t.

It’s a beautiful picture, Dean and Lisa sitting at the edges of a beige couch that looks comfortable and worn out in all the right places. A young man is leaning on the back of it, smiling, his hands reaching out to tangle with the smaller ones of two toddlers, sitting smack in the center, stealing the thunder from everybody else with their gummy smiles and pouty lips.

Castiel finds himself smiling at it, warmth blooming in his chest at the proof of Dean’s full life. Proof that he did get what he wanted, what he deserved, in the end.

“They’re beautiful,” he murmurs, fingers sweeping over the faces reverently, like he’s trying to soak up their happiness through his skin.

Dean just shrugs, shoulders tense as he keeps looking at the road.

“How old are they?” he asks when Dean doesn’t add anything. He can’t help but be curious about every detail of the life he imagines Dean and Lisa have built for themselves.

“Ben’s nineteen, and the twins are almost three. Birthday’s in couple weeks actually,” he says, a wistful smile curling on his lips, until he passes a hand over it, fingers brushing stubble, and it disappears like it was never there.

“You miss them,” Castiel realises as he says it.

Dean flinches a little, a small thing that would be easy to miss, shoulders tensing and fingers fisting tighter around the steering wheel. Like tension is gripping him from the inside out, a sticky hold pinching Dean’s naked nerves. Castiel wishes he hadn’t asked.

“Yeah, no shit, man. They’re my kids. What kind of dad stays three states away from his kids?” he asks to the stale air between them. Voice like sandpaper, thick, so bitter Castiel almost feels it like a physical taste in the back of his own mouth.

“A hardworking one,” he replies softly, because the Dean he knows, the Dean he knew, so long ago, would not take kindly to the suggestion that he’s a good and deserving man, a good father.

Present day Dean doesn’t seem to appreciate the thought either because he swallows thickly, throws him a sideways glare.

“Yeah, right,” he scoffs. “Like you know anything about kids.”

Castiel guesses the remark would sting more if he did have kids, or if he wanted any, but he doesn’t, he’s fulfilled, and Dean’s words barely scrape him.

Dean must take his silence as offense as he’s stiff for a moment, before he speaks again.

“Shit, I’m sorry man,” he grunts, right hand going up to brush lightly over his face. “I mean, you’ve got plenty of stuff to be proud of, kids or not. I’m just a shitty father who spends too much time away from his family 'cause he’s too big a coward to go back and fix it,” he rumbles, frown creasing his forehead deeply.

It’s a sudden and startling confession. It seems to slip out of Dean’s lips before he can catch it, and it echoes in the warm confines of the truck.

“Dean, I-” he starts, even though he doesn’t really know what he’s going to say, feeling like he can’t leave Dean to think so lowly of himself.

“Whatever you’re going to say, don’t, just– Don’t,” Dean interrupts him, a hand now waving in the air between the two of them. Castiel can’t see his eyes, masked by the sunglasses, but he feels the heat of his stare nonetheless.

There had been a time when he would have fought Dean on his words, raised his voice until his friend had listened; but that was so long ago, and suddenly he can feel all the weight of all those years, the distance between them like an insurmountable thing, thick and tall and impossible to ignore.

The silence burns a little in his throat, but he accepts his defeat and swallows around it, nods, and doesn’t say anything when Dean reaches out to turn the radio on.

The music seems to help a little in recreating the relaxed atmosphere of the day before, and Castiel lets himself melt in it, bit by bit. Dean seems to shake off his bad mood too, quick to return to a rough sort of kindness after his outburst, starts pointing out landmarks and sharing little anecdotes as they drive on.

The rest of the drive is smooth and relaxed and soon they’re pulling onto a dirt road, windows rolled down despite the dust, soaking in the first tentative licks of summer on their skin.

The place is beautiful, the afternoon warm and bright, and they taste wine and share way too many complimentary appetizers, Dean challenging him to see who can fit more tiny canapes in their mouth. Turns out Dean can fit five of them, and Castiel just lets him win because he can’t stop laughing at his puffed out cheeks, third canape on its way to his lips as he admits defeat while his eyes water from pure mirth.

They stay late, later than either of them had anticipated, lounging on the fancy white chairs, overlooking the pool, surrounded by hills and vines, sipping on too many kinds of wine that end up blending all together.

Castiel is supposed to make a list of all the wines he likes and what they pair with, has a full print out and a tiny pencil and scores he’s supposed to assign, but he never gets around to it.

The paper gets used for a rather inspired sketch of him in his old “creepy flasher” trench coat, as Dean remembers it, and Castiel is torn between being offended and admiring Dean’s remarkable creative skills. They sit and they laugh and when they reminisce about the past, it’s only about the good parts, nostalgia a sweet weight in his gut.

The sun is a touch too warm on Castiel’s nose, shines bright on Dean’s freckled cheeks, then slowly sets down, and Castiel watches as their shadows get longer and longer on the grass. He watches them roll over the slope of the hill and he wishes he could lay down right in the middle of Dean’s ever stretching shadow, wrap it around himself like a blanket of evening-warm darkness; and he knows it’d smell like leather and sawdust and its warmth would chase the winter frost right out of his chest.

The feeling, the warmth, follows him all the way back into the truck, into his hotel room, into his bed, under the covers, where he lays down by himself and thinks how enticing Dean’s eyes looked in the dying light of the sun until he falls asleep.

When he wakes up it’s morning again, the warmth is a tiny flicker, a small coal burrowed deep into his bones, and for the first time in a while, his fingers don’t shake when he reaches for his phone.

It still takes him a while to figure out what woke him up, mouth dry and head a little too fuzzy from the night before. He has a missed call from Erin and he steels himself before calling her back.

She seems kind, even if hurried, on the phone, tells him she has scheduled a last minute appointment with a bakery her friends recommended. She puts a lot of emphasis on how renowned the place is and how many strings she had to pull in order to get the booking. Castiel nods silently and feels like the small child he never was for the whole duration of the call.  
Eventually they settle on a time, Erin telling him she'll pick him up and they can go to lunch together and then she’ll drive them to the bakery.

“And make sure to dress proper, darling. This is a classy establishment we’re going to, and Evan told me you can be quite lax with these things, bless your heart,” she adds at the end, a tinny laugh to follow her words until she ends the call, leaving Castiel feeling confused and almost offended.

Still he follows her advice, not wanting to ruin the relationship with Evan’s family quite so soon and ends up sitting stiffly in her car, dressed up in his best Armani suit, wondering if the sweat pooling in his armpits will ruin the fabric.

He studies her profile as she drives, lips stained bright red and thin, stretched around perfectly straight teeth; large sunglasses perched on top of her blonde hair, like she’s just breezing by, gracing people with her presence for just a moment until she leaves again.

When they’re finally seated face to face at the admittedly high-end restaurant she picked, the first thing Castiel thinks, stupidly, is that she doesn’t blink very much. It actually seems like she’s not blinking at all, her eyes round and her long fake eyelashes fanning around her orbs. Beautiful and unsettling in the same blink.

She only reminds him of Evan in the little things, the way her voice catches and drags on some vowels, the way she arranges her cutlery before eating, the way her hands clench in prayer for a moment before she starts on her food.

“I picked this place for the cake; my friend Tiffany got her wedding cake there, and it was the talk of the town for a full week,” she explains as she sets her napkin on the table, her seafood salad barely touched, now wilting sadly on the plate.

Castiel nods, swallows a bite of lobster that is probably delicious but still tastes like cardboard in his dry mouth.

He plasters a smile onto his grimace and fake interest on top of his indifference for the whole duration of the lunch, and makes sure to nod in all the right places, not wanting to disappoint.

By the time they’re done and he’s following her to her white, shiny, monstrosity of a car, he’s feeling as exhausted and drained as he was when he left San Jose. His chest is cold, even in the dry afternoon heat.

They don’t talk as she drives to the bakery, and Castiel is grateful for it, content to observe the city around him, idly scanning every truck he sees, thinking maybe one of them could be Dean’s.

It keeps him entertained until Erin finally parks her Lincoln and climbs out, black heels clicking loud on the hot pavement. This trip was all supposed to be about him taking back control of this wedding, and yet it still feels like it’s slipping from his fingers faster than he can catch it.

He sighs as he follows her into the small place, white and flowery and smelling like sweets.

The display case at the front of the bakery has an impressive assortment of cakes and cupcakes and cookies, and, Castiel notices with a smile, pies.

There are rows and rows of perfectly browned pies with different fillings and decorations, making his mouth water and his lips stir into a small smile. He thinks of Dean and his love for the dessert, and before he can think about it too much, he has taken a picture of the display and sent it to him, asking him if he would accept it as bribe and which flavor would work best.

Erin drags him into the small tasting room before he gets a reply; and he lets her, her manicured hand curling light over his bicep a little too tightly.

The tasting goes on for a long time, longer than he had ever imagined spending on discussing cakes and flavor combinations, and Erin sends him a disapproving glance that almost burns a hole through his side, when he finally hears the beeping signaling that Dean has texted him back.

**> Dean (RECEIVED 15:15)**   
**-Love for pie never does dumbass**   
**-*dies**   
**-It’s like the only certainty left in life**   
**-Get the raspberry one and it might get you a ride to the lake**

_< Dean (SENT 15:16)_   
_-Glad to know some things never change, Dean_   
_-If I get the apple one too, can I take a look at that sketchbook of yours?_

**> Dean (RECEIVED 15:16)**   
**-Unfair.** **I showed you at the bar already**

_< Dean (SENT 15:17)_   
_-It was two pages. From afar._   
_-So. Raspberry for lake, apple for sketchbook?_

**> Dean (RECEIVED 15:18)**   
**-Pie bribery, man… You’re shameless**

_< Dean (SENT 15:19)_   
_-That a yes?_

**> Dean (RECEIVED 15:20)**   
**-Sketchbook is nothing special, told you already**   
**-Not one for sayin no to delicious food tho**   
**-Add whipped cream and you can have 5 min with it**

_< Dean (SENT 15:22)_   
_-Sounds intriguing._   
_-Deal_

The texting earns him several confused glances from the bakery girl who seems to be able to endlessly talk about flavors and sponges, and it all goes flying right past Castiel’s head as he gets sucked into the playful banter with Dean. There’s a creaking sound coming from Erin’s chair, getting louder the more stiff she gets, stealing glances at his phone, scoffing at him whenever he spaces out to look at the screen. He’s paying the bare minimum of attention to their task and he knows it- it’s written all over Erin’s face, in the rough lines around her eyes, in the tight fit on her lips. He feels a vague awareness prickling at the back of his brain, like he should be more mindful of her and her opinion of him, but he feels strangely detached, like it doesn’t really matter, like he can just go along with it and find enjoyment in other things. Like Dean and his calloused hands and his witty texts.

Eventually they settle on a beautiful white cake, a combination of fruit and whipped cream that Cas thinks everyone should like, especially on a hot summer Texas day like the one they’re planning for.

He buys the slices of pie he promised Dean, adds a cupcake for Erin, hoping to mollify her a little. The fake dimples on her cheeks when he gives it to her suggest he doesn’t really manage that.

When Erin finally goes home it’s like a weight instantly lifts from Castiel’s sternum. The relief is so stark and instant that it throws him off a little.

It doesn’t take him long to recover though, not when he can call Dean, hear the childlike excitement in his voice at the prospect of having delicious pie, promising him he’ll pick him up in an hour to drive him to his cabin.

And pick up he does, leaning out of the truck window, all flannel and messy hair and smelling like wood and sawdust

“Where’s my pie?” he asks, before saying hello, and Castiel smiles all the way to the passenger seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not the most fast-paced chapter, I'll admit, but I didn't want to cram it with too much stuff and wanted the boys to slowly get closer, bit by bit.  
> It also has one of my favorite moments in the entire fic, so I hope it all balanced itself out.
> 
> Hope it still was interesting enough for you guys, things get (a little) heated in chapter 4 so get ready for that! ;)
> 
> As usual, kudos and comments absolutely make my day, I LOVE to get feedback from readers, and I'll be more than happy to answer any questions, so be in touch! <3 <3 <3


	4. Swish - Dean POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I gotta say it, this is one of my favorite chapters, there's Dean at work, some Sam, and like a bucketload of UST, so get ready! <3
> 
> Big thanks to my betas, eyesofatragedy and tipofmemory you guys are the best!

If there’s something Dean has come to love, in the years since leaving the hunter life behind, it’s the smell of his workshop. The way the wood sheds and bleeds on his table, the way it lets itself be bent into shape by his hands, the way it still fights him every single step of the way.

It’s a beautiful battle of wills, he thinks, his hands and his tools against the stubborn grain of the wood, never taking victory for granted.

It makes him smile in pride just as often as it makes him tear his hair out in frustration, and he can’t deny how much he loves it all.

He stands in front of his table, sanding away a misshapen log that he knows would have been thrown out by most of his colleagues. Too ruined, too stubborn, not worth the effort... to anyone but him, at least.

“The Winchester signature”, some pompous interior designer had called it when describing his use of repurposed wood to prospective clients, and it had made Dean roll his eyes right back into his skull. The couple had lapped it all up and ordered a full bedroom set though, so Dean had stopped complaining about it. If hipster folks wanted to use fancy words for his works, then they were welcome to do so, as long as he got paid at the end of the day. And get paid he did, commission after commission, referral to referral, building a solid client base without really even trying.

“This one’ll be the last one” he’d say to Lisa with every new, increasingly complex, project, just to be swept into a different one before the dust had even settled on his tools.

They had discussed it, when he had been offered the big project in Austin, how realistic, how selfish of a choice it would be for him to accept it. To leave the steady carpenter position and his family behind in Lawrence, just to throw himself head first into something he’s still learning how to do. Something he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be good enough at to support the family he’s created.

He can picture her face even now, months after, the way her forehead had creased in worry; the way her fingers had picked at the worn hem of her sweater sleeves as she told him to pursue it, to go and figure out what really mattered to him, before he came back to them.

“I’ll only be gone a couple weeks; be back before you know it, promise,” he’d said, pulling her small frame into his arms, rubbing the line of her spine until the tension had bled out a little. She had looked at him like she wanted to believe him but couldn’t, and he had wanted to prove her wrong so badly then, to show her he was able to just get this done and come back to her, to their family.

It’s been months now and he still hasn’t gone back. The phone calls have grown increasingly angrier, colder, Lisa asking him to come back, to be committed; him telling her it’s just one more job, just one more and he’ll be done, he’ll be satisfied. But he never is, and he’s starting to think he’ll only go back to Kansas to have her serve him divorce papers. He’s not sure how he feels about it; and the absence of pain, the knowledge he wouldn’t fight her that hard if she wanted to end it, that’s almost worse than the doubt.

The foggier his thoughts grow, the hotter the guilt burns in his chest, the harder he works, arms straining, pushing and pulling with a fervor that he knows will leave him sore the next day. And he knows he'll welcome the ache.

The workshop is unusually quiet as he works, hands driving back and forth on the wood with sandpaper, radio humming low in the corner, and he’s startled when he hears a loud buzzing coming from the bench.

When he walks up to it, it’s to find a text from Castiel, and it pulls a small smile out of him, like this is normal. This thing that they’ve been doing since they met at the bar, chatting like they’re friends, like they have both forgotten they had been living completely separate lives until just days before.

A laugh barks out of him when he opens the message - it’s a picture of himself, eyes closed and mouth stuffed full of pie, a blissed out expression on his features that almost makes him blush.

The picture, he knows, is from a few days before, when Cas had brought over pie to share and Dean had admittedly lost himself a little, scarfing it down with very little thought for finesse.  
It had been so good, though, and his stomach rumbles in reminiscence.

It had been so unexpectedly easy to hang out with Cas like that, the carton of pie opened on the coffee table between them, the TV humming low in the background, neither of them paying attention to it.

Castiel had looked different that evening, in the buttery glow of the cabin, more relaxed, less stiff. He had laughed and teased, little creases forming around his eyes, his nose, unmistakable signs that he isn’t the angel Dean remembers him to be, hasn’t been for a long time.

_< Cas (SENT 11:07)_   
_-That’s just evil man_   
_-Sneaking up on a guy like that_

**> Cas (RECEIVED 11:08)**   
**-I do not sneak Dean**   
**-You just looked very pleased with the pie**   
**-Consider it payback for not showing me your sketches**

_< Cas (SENT 11:10)_   
_-Told you i left it in the workshop_   
_-u can always come here if your so curious_   
_\- *you’re_

He says, and his lip somehow finds itself under his teeth, being gnawed at while he waits for Cas to reply.

**> Cas (RECEIVED 11:12)**   
**-yes, I think I will**   
**-is today good? 2pm-ish?**

Dean smiles then, a nervous trickle of anticipation teasing the back of his neck. Knowing he'll have the chance to show Cas his work, hear what he thinks of it all.

He tells himself he's not gonna fret, that there's no reason to, but he does, just a little. It's nothing major, but he still sweeps the dusty floor and straightens his blueprints where they lay in a heap on the table. He tucks his tools out of sight, stored and hung exactly where they're supposed to be, so that Cas won't risk running into them.

He's in the middle of arranging the pencils on the table by length when the phone rings again in his pocket. He picks it up right away, expecting the deep rumble of Cas’s voice on the other end.  
But when he finally looks at the screen, it tells him that it's Sam calling and his stomach drops a little, the way it always does when he talks to his brother nowadays.

"Hey, Sam," he answers, sitting down on the stool. "How's it going?"

“Hey. I’m, you know, I’m good. Been working a case in Washington for a couple weeks, just got out actually,” Sam says, and Dean can hear the faint rumble of an engine under his words. “Thought I’d check on you.”

Dean snickers and it’s bitter. “Shouldn’t it be the other way ‘round? My life’s boring, man. I ain’t the one risking my balls out there on the daily.”

Sam sighs, and Dean can picture him running his fingers through his hair, eyebrows pinched in frustration over an argument they’ve had one time too many already. “Dean-”

“What? ’S true,” he says, and he wishes, not for the first time, that he was able to keep the bitterness, the longing, the frustration out of his voice long enough to have a normal damn phone call with his brother.

There’s silence at the other end of the line, and he starts worrying Sam might actually hang up on him already, so he finds himself just blurting it out.

“I found Cas,” he says, which makes no sense because he didn’t find shit. Cas just crashed back into his life without thought or plan, and he’s just been flailing and trying to catch up ever since.

Sam is startled, and there’s a curse being muttered before Dean hears the quiet crunch of the car coming to a stop.

“Cas is- Cas is dead, Dean,” Sam huffs through the phone.

“Huh- He’s not. He’s really not, trust me. Human, yes, but kickin’ and breathin’, just like you and me.”

“Tell me everything,” Sam commands, so Dean does. He tells him about the bar and the drinks, and even the damn Elvis song. About Cas and his fancy start-up company and his wedding. The way his voice is still the same but his clothes aren’t, the way he’s still kind but steely at the same time, a little anxious at the edges.

Sam listens and asks him too many questions Dean doesn’t actually have the answer to, but the wonder in his voice is unmistakable, and it makes Dean smile.

“I’ve gotta help a hunter in Great Falls this week, Wendigo case gone wrong, but after that I- ” he stops for a beat and Dean knows he’s trying to pick his next words carefully. “I’d like to come there, see you, see Cas. It’s been a while.”

“It has,” Dean says, and neither of them is going to acknowledge that it’s also been a while since they’ve seen each other; that’s fine with him.

They’re both silent for a beat, words they’re not saying buzzing quiet through the static, Dean can almost imagine a whole conversation in the silence.

“How’s that dumb dog of yours?” he asks Sam because he doesn’t really know what else the fuck to say to him, the boy who shared shitty motel beds with him, who knows Dean has spent half his lifetime in Hell. The man whose face he hasn’t seen in months, and who has countless new scars Dean hasn’t seen him getting.

“Dusty’s not dumb,” Sam retorts.

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that. Damn thing chewed through one pair of slippers too many.”

“It was one time, Dean.”

“Try three, Sammy.”

“Third one was your fault. Either way, he’s fine, he’s good, a friend is watching him until I get back,” Sam says and Dean can almost see the exasperated but fond smile on his face, and it feels like things are alright again, just for a second.

“So, guess I’ll see ya in a couple of weeks then?” he asks, a tendril of tension through his voice, needing to close the conversation before it takes a dive for the worse again; before Sam can decide to start asking all the wrong questions about Lisa, about Cas, about Texas and how Dean’s ass is still firmly planted there.

“Yeah, yes, sounds good. Take care, Dean. You, uh- say hi to Cas for me.”

The call clicks shut after that, and Dean exhales all the breaths he’s been holding in for the past ten minutes.

He doesn’t know when the relationship with Sam had started going downhill, but he guesses it was somewhere between the failed Apocalypse and Sam’s decision to keep hunting, to keep risking his skin by himself out there, while Dean hid in the folds of his suburban life.

It’d be easy to get sucked right back into the same bullshit they’ve been stuck in for the past ten years, and he doesn’t want to. Not when he knows Cas is about to come by.

The table could still use some tidying up, and he throws himself into it, mind reeling a little, the strings of his old life all coming together suddenly and at the same time, and it feels as safe as it feels stifling.

He startles when there finally is the faint rumble of an engine outside the workshop's open door. He walks up to it, eyes squinting in the sun to find the form of an unfamiliar shape, a sleek white car, no front license plate, no dust, no rust, sparkling like it just got out of the factory.

Just as he’s about to open his mouth and grumble at what’s clearly a lost rich asshole, a familiar silhouette climbs out of the car, dark against the clear sky.

“Cas,” he says, and it sounds a little breathless to his own ears.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas says around a small proud grin. “It’s a rental; you like it?” and he’s jogging a little towards him, keys jingling in his fingers.

“Ain’t that the robot car that pretends it can drive itself?” he grumbles, eyeing the vehicle suspiciously. He’s seen a bunch of them around but he has so far refused to get close enough to actually study it.

“It doesn’t pretend; it _can_ drive itself,” Cas says, all rugged smugness. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a little technology now?” The smile he gives him then can be classified as wolfish and Dean hates it. Just a little.

“I ain’t afraid,” he replies, boots crunching the dust under his heels as he turns back towards the door. “But if you think I’d trust a computer to drive better than me, then you really have forgotten who you’re talking to, Cas.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Cas’s response comes a little too quick and a little too soft for comfort, and Dean’s suddenly really glad he’s not looking at him anymore.

_Neither have I_ , he wants to say, because it’s true.

“You gonna come in or what?” he says instead, ears straining to pick up the sound of Castiel’s following footsteps.

“Oh, wow. Dean this is- Did you make this?” Cas blurts out as soon as he enters the workshop.  
He doesn’t really wait for Dean to answer, fingers and eyes wandering all over the space, reverently sweeping over half-finished projects, careful designs, even the little sketches full of smudges. He studies each of them with a reverent and curious stare, like he’s experiencing something precious and new. Dean feels the brush of those fingertips right on the edge of his soul, every hair raised in a wave of both pride and embarrassment.

“It’s not that big a deal, Cas,” he says, a hand clutching the back of his neck, feeling the heat spread slow through his skin. “‘S nothing like those fancy machines you make.”

“Solar panels,” Cas rebutts, eyes squinting a little, now all focused back on Dean.

“Yeah, whatever, man, fancy machines.”

“Fancy isn’t the word I’d use,” he says, blue now back on his sketchbook, long enough for Dean to start missing it. “Efficient, maybe. But nothing as elegant as the things you’re able to do here.”

And why does he have to go around and say those things? When Dean already feels cracked open a little, a fissure of light pulsating directly into his sternum, illuminating the mess of guts underneath.

Cas doesn’t add anything else, and Dean is grateful, hides his flushed face behind a pile of logs and tries not to feel like a coward.

“This is amazing, Dean,” he hears Cas say, and when he turns to face him, he finds him by his side, spying at the drawings in front of him from over his shoulder. “What is it?” he asks.

“‘S for the twins’ birthday. Supposed to be a swing. Like a boat, but a swing, big enough that they can both sit on it without tipping over, you know,” he fumbles a little, having to explain the project out loud for the first time. “It’s dumb anyway,” he finishes, flipping the pages closed again.

“It’s not, it looks beautiful. I’m sure they would love it,” Cas whispers, fingers prying the book open once more. “You’re making something for them; that’s special.”

Dean nods and then he just has to show the guy what he’s going to use, just because he actually looks eager to know, eager to listen for as long as Dean wants to talk. And Dean finds that he really, really, wants to keep talking to him.

So he does.

He shows Cas the projects he’s working on, explains how he’s experimenting with epoxy because that’s all people ask for right now, but he doesn’t like it that much.

“Makes for a great Instagram video but it ain’t always worth the trouble, y’know?” he says and Cas nods even though he clearly doesn’t know.

The workshop isn’t that grand, or interesting, and neither is Dean, but Cas regards both with the utmost attention and care, and it truly seems like there’s nothing he’d rather be doing than listening to Dean rambling about the new power saw he’s saving for.

Cas becomes weirdly fascinated with the bunch of worry stones he has laying all over the place, looks at them all squinty-eyed and amazed, touches them so gently, like they’re precious.

Dean has to explain to him he makes them when he’s bored and needs to focus his attention on something easy. He explains he sometimes sells them to customers who don’t mind dropping a couple tens on what’s essentially a nicely polished scrap. He doesn’t tell him there’s one in the pocket of every jacket he owns, plus two in the console of his truck because he likes fiddling with them when traffic gets him antsy. That seems like it’s an intimate detail, and they’re not that kind of friends, never been like that, the two of them.

“This is very calming,” Cas tells him, his thumb running circles on the wood, lips parted a little as he observes the repetitive motion. “I like it,” he smiles, crooked and small, and Dean feels more accomplished than when he sells a big commission.

He’s deep into an explanation on how he’s gonna turn a large tree stump into a Grand Canyon table, when Cas’s phone rings. He excuses himself but doesn’t go that far, tucked in a corner off the workshop, close enough that Dean can still hear him arguing about not wanting to have a bachelor’s party with whoever is on the phone. The call is short and Castiel’s voice is deep and clipped when he finally ends it and walks back to where Dean’s standing, pretending he wasn’t listening.

“So, how’s the wedding stuff going?” he asks, feigning complete ignorance.

Castiel just grunts and passes a hand over his eyes, fingers pressing over his temples.

“It’s a headache mostly. Evan insists I need a bachelor’s party, but I don’t see the point.”

Dean’s chest does a weird little thing that feels like a somersault and a hiccup at the same time at the mention of Evan’s name, but he swallows it down.

“Point is to have some fun with your friends. And see some nice strippers without feeling like a sleazebag,” he says eventually.

“I have never even been at a strip club. Why would I-” Cas starts, but Dean never lets him finish.

“You’ve never what?” he asks, baffled. “Seriously?”

Cas only glares at him harder.

Knowing the guy, Dean really doesn’t know why the news surprised him this much.

After that it becomes a challenge of sorts, and there isn’t much Cas can say that can convince him to drop it.

Soon enough all talk of woodworking is forgotten and they end up with plans for a bachelor’s party/first strip joint outing, much to Cas’s dismay and Dean’s amusement.

\---

It’s called _Swish_ , the place he ends up taking Castiel to. It’s not the seediest he’s seen and it’s not the classiest, and Dean figures it’ll do just fine for the two of them tonight.

They ride in Dean’s truck because he doesn’t trust this part of this city that much, and Cas’s fancy rental will look a lot more out of place than his busted up truck.

He pulls in, kicks up a bunch of dust with his tires and pictures the sleek lines of the Impala pulling into the seedy parking lot, turning heads, automatically making him an object of curiosity and desire.

“Dean, I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Cas rumbles from the passenger seat as Dean kills the engine. His voice is a sandpapery whisper and his hands are clenched tight around his seat belt, like he’ll be safe as long as stays buckled in his seat.

Dean rolls his eyes at his antics, and something akin to affection seeps slow through the next breath he takes.

He pretends it’s the summer heat.

“Cas, come on, man. You gotta unclench every once in a while,” he says, fingers reaching across the console to unbuckle his seatbelt. His words earn him a glaring squint and an angry grunt, but he smiles and whistles anyways, letting excitement wash over him.

It feels oddly similar to that one night, all those years ago, the two of them walking through a questionable parking lot, towards an even more questionable establishment. Castiel all stiff and reluctant, Dean all giddy and loose, the summer heat swirling at their feet.

It almost doesn’t matter at all, in that moment, that so much life has come to pass in all the years in between. It feels as if they never really left each other’s pockets. It feels like a good thing, and Dean ain’t the kind of man to question a good thing.

The bar itself is kind of unremarkable when they get inside. A lot of pinks and purples and neons everywhere and music so loud you can feel it in your bones.

There are tables scattered here and there, and Dean picked the place because reviews said the snacks are actually decent and the drinks are pretty good, if expensive. It’s not the kind of thing that would have mattered to twenty five year old Dean; back then it was all about the best dancers with the loosest rules about engaging with customers. But it isn’t about that now, not today. Today is about unwinding, and catching up, possibly unclenching a little, if Castiel can actually manage that, all while being surrounded by beautiful looking people.

Dean sees nothing wrong with that.

They walk in, and immediately they’re approached by a scantily clad server, her breasts cradled in a bright pink balcony bra that makes them look like they’re defying gravity. Dean appreciates both the effort and the view.

“I’m Chastity,” she says, blonde hair twirling between her manicured fingers. “I’ll be your server tonight; follow me,” and she walks on without really checking if they’re following her, hips swaying as she strides confidently.

Dean smiles; it’s gonna be a good night. He claps Cas on the back, right in between his ever-tense shoulder blades. The touch is fleeting but grounding, and he lets his hand linger just a second, fingers slipping fast over the sleek fabric.

“You good, man?” he asks him, a twinge of something akin to fear that he’s actually making his friend uncomfortable.

Castiel just shrugs, shakes his limbs, like he’s physically shaking his reluctance off, from his shoulders to the sticky floor. He smiles a little as he turns to him.

“I’m okay. Let’s not make our friend Chastity wait,” he says with a smirk that looks both out of place and kind of perfect on his face.

Dean can only huff a laugh and follow him.

The club isn’t too crowded, he observes as they get seated in a circular booth a ways away from the main stage. The velvety pink cushion soft under his fingers as he sinks on top of it, Castiel a warm weight right in front of him.

They order beers and relent when Chastity insists they need to try a drink named Octopussy. Dean’s got no clue what’s in it, but he doesn’t give much of a fuck, not when Castiel goes a little pink in the ears when he hears the name and tries to mask it with a cough that doesn’t fool anyone.

So Dean orders two of them and positively basks in the heat of Castiel’s glare on him. Riling him up had been one of Dean’s secret little pleasures all those years ago, and he’s pleased to see that things haven’t really changed much.

“It tastes much like what I imagine a fairy’s vomit to taste like,” Castiel says once the drinks are in front of them in all their bright pink fruity glory. His mouth is pursed in disgust, little lines crowding at the corners of his eyes, into the curve of his nose.

Dean is so thrown off by the comment it takes him a second to push out the laugh bubbling in his gut. When he does, it’s loud and full bodied, and he feels better than he has in decades.

“You think about little ladies’ puke much these days, Cas?” he asks, a little breathless, wiping a tear from his eye.

Cas just rolls his eyes and takes another pained sip. “You know fairies are real, right?” he tells him, face schooled in complete seriousness.

Dean’s face must do something like admitting he’s got no idea what the guy’s talking about, because Castiel immediately launches into a mini-lecture about what seem to be very mischievous, ruthless little creatures. Dean’s just glad he’s never had to face them, makes a little mental note to ask Sam about it.

Castiel talks, face close to be heard over the pounding music, and Dean busies himself with taking another sip, and damn, he’s going to have a word with Chastity if that's what she thinks a good drink tastes like.

“And now for the most anticipated act of the night,” a voice suddenly blares over the speakers, boisterous and too loud. Dean grins at Cas’s little startled wince as he tilts his head to the main stage to spy at what’s about to come.

Dean wants to tease him a little again, poke at his tense muscles until they relax, but he doesn’t really get a chance to, loud music blaring from the main stage as five dancers strut out.

They’re all beautiful, and Dean relaxes in his seat to appreciate the view, even if their routine is nothing too original. A lot of old-fashioned grinding and pole swinging and graceful slipping out of already revealing clothes. He sips his drink and the alcohol settles heavy in his stomach, a little fuzzy in his brain. He orders another beer to wash the fruity flavor out of his mouth.

The dancers grind and strip and the sweat looks glittery and warm on their bodies; slowly, he can feel a curl of arousal starting to form in his gut, warm and slippery, just a whisper of desire. He knocks his legs apart to give himself room to breathe, to possibly get chubby in his jeans, if that’s where things are headed. His knee hits Cas’s under the table and the unexpected contact sends a little surprised jolt through his skin, feeding that aroused curl right in his belly.

Cas looks a little startled when their eyes lock, mouth just barely curled around a soundless gasp, like he had forgotten Dean was right there. His hair looks a little sweaty, his skin flushed; the colored strobe lights glide over the curve of his cheekbones, down the lines of the tendons in his neck, his collarbones where they disappear into the confines of his shirt.

The more Dean looks, the drier his mouth gets.

He laughs it off and takes another sip, eyes moving back to what they’re supposed to be watching, the girls on stage and their toned, dancing bodies. The fantasy of something he’s not going to get to touch, pretty and to be admired only from afar.

His knee stays where it is, just shy of Cas’s body, for the rest of the performance.

The show on stage doesn’t go on too long; soon the dancers are climbing off the stage and striding off towards the few patrons in the club. Dean smiles; now they’re talking.

There’s a beautiful girl right in his line of sight, her skin golden and shimmering under the lights, long black hair swirling over her shoulders, her chest, as she smiles at him seductively.

He motions her closer.

“Dean, what are you-” Castiel starts to ask, body now suddenly tense again, thrown forward over the table, a warning glare in his eyes.

“Don’t worry about it, man, my treat,” he says, and he can feel his mouth curling into a smirk as he speaks. Castiel’s face is still a little flushed in embarrassment.

Dean almost starts to feel guilty, but then the girl is right there, hip cocked to the side, manicured nails tapping on the glossy table.

“Twenty for a dance, sweetie,” she says, leaning into him a little to be heard over the music. “Thirty if you want baby blues over there to join in,” she tells him, nodding towards Cas, velvety voice slipping right over him.

“Nah, I’m good. I’ll pay for _baby blues_ , though,” he says, huffing through a laugh. “Never been at a strip joint before. What do you say you give him a warm welcome?” he says, nodding his head towards where Cas is sitting, ramrod straight and scowling.

She laughs, takes the offered money and turns to face Castiel with a flick of her hair. Castiel, for his part, is still sitting primly on the bench, eyes a little wide as he watches her getting closer.

She doesn’t waste any time in getting started, hips swirling seductively as she kneels over Cas’s crossed legs. “Relax, love, I’ll go easy on you,” she says, her voice barely a whisper over the music. Dean shuffles a little closer to watch.

She reaches down to un-cross his legs until they’re spread out under her and starts dancing on Cas’s body, shimmying and grinding on it like it’s her favorite toy.

Dean watches her, the curve of her spine and the swell of her backside, the golden thong riding high over her hips and the tattoos marking her skin.

Castiel’s hands curl around the edge of the seat, fingers white where they’re gripping too tight. Dean gets a little caught staring at them, pictures them reaching for her waist, imagines how they’d look curled over her tanned breasts, pinching a nipple, or maybe over her neck, in a possessive caress, into her mouth. Imagines what Cas’s fingers would look like with pretty lips sucking on them, imagines what they’d taste like.

He’s shocked back into his body when the dancer flips around, her back to Castiel’s front, as she drapes over him, cradled by the 'v' of his spread legs.

She looks at Dean then, smirking as her hips gyrate over Cas’s groin, her hands gliding all over her own body in an erotic display.

The bass of the song is loud and pumps through Dean’s bones, each beat a vibration of interest and arousal that crests over his whole body.

He drinks, hopes it’ll silence the fire he can feel pulsing through his veins.

The song slows down a little, the dancer twists around again to kneel at Cas’s feet, her hands gliding over the fabric of his pants, up and up and up, teasing and caressing and settling on his hips. Dean follows the movement with his eyes, the way the material stretches over Cas’s muscular legs, the way it creases over his groin, where he must be growing hard. He can feel sweat pooling on the small of his back, suddenly feels like he’s crossing a boundary simply by watching the display, watching Cas where he sits disheveled and aroused.

_Beautiful,_ Dean thinks.

He drags his eyes back up, regrets it immediately when he meets Cas’s just over her shoulder, where they’re barely open, a tiny slit of blue peeking through. He looks like Dean feels and holy shit, it’s hot, all of a sudden. It’s hot, it’s so hot, and Dean has a semi in his jeans and fuck, he needs a drink. He reaches over to his glass, just to find it empty.

He grasps it uselessly, fingers itching to be doing something, anything that’s not reaching out and pulling them both over his own lap and grinding against them until they’re all sated and spent.

The mental image of sweaty bodies gliding together, her tanned skin against his own, against Cas’s, it’s enough to send a scorching heatwave all the way through his body. His thighs clench a little where they’re still spread, and it sends a jolt of arousal straight from his dick into his chest.

He stays like that, mouth lolling open a little, dry, pants tight over his spread legs, eyes glued to the spectacle in front of him. He tries to watch the dancer, her curves, her moves, and somehow always ends back up watching Cas’s face, drinking down the way it grows more and more flushed, his eyes heavy-lidded and magnetic. Dean desperately tells himself it’s the alcohol that’s responsible for the buzz under his skin, but the two empty glasses on the table tell a different story and he finds it harder and harder to lie.

When the dance ends, he barely registers it. He sees the woman climb off Cas’s lap, hears her asking him about a second dance, Cas declining, the music changing. It’s time to avert his eyes, he knows; it’s time to grow soft again in his jeans, to crack a joke and a beer, but he can’t seem to convince his brain to do just that.

He keeps sitting there, in his aroused stupor, brain mushy and useless, eyes glued to the man sitting in front of him, taking in his flushed body, the way his chest rises and falls in uneven breaths, the way a little sweat is pooling in the dip between his collarbones. Waiting for Cas to say something, to address Dean’s feverish stare, to end it, but he never does.

And for a moment, just a second, right there, there’s nothing Dean wants more than to close the distance between them, to feel how hot Cas’s skin really is right against his own, to see how far his blush really spreads, to smell how Cas smells when he’s turned on and sweaty.

The intensity and the suddenness of his desire startles him, kicks him right out of his stupor and he recoils hard, whole body twitching, closing off. His legs cross over his dick, pretending he’s not hard anymore, pretending it’s all because he hasn’t had any in a long, long time now and he’s only human.

Cas seems to snap back into reality right after he does, and Dean is grateful, couldn’t bear the weight of those eyes that still seem all-knowing to him, not when his head is a mess of thoughts and vibrations he can’t even begin to unravel.

They order more beer and watch the show on the main stage for a while longer, legs no longer bumping each other under the table, eyes avoiding meeting in the middle.  
Dean tries to make a joke or two, but the music is loud and he has to lean over the table, get close to Cas’s ear so that he can hear him, and the proximity feels wrong now, weighted, so he stops talking altogether.

Normalcy never really comes back to their little corner booth, and they both agree to call it quits after a little over an hour.

Dean feels relieved when they finally walk out to the parking lot, like he can leave all those twisted thoughts laying on the sticky floor of the bar, in the darkness, where he doesn’t have to look at them ever again.

“That was... an interesting experience,” Cas says when they get to the car, and fuck if Dean doesn’t agree with that statement.

The air is warm around them and Dean rolls the window down, feels the sweat cooling off on his heated skin, his head feeling lighter as he drives on, music a low buzzing in his ears, just enough that he doesn’t really have to listen to his own thoughts.

It’s relaxed, then tense again, when they reach Cas’s hotel and he turns to him to say goodbye.  
Suddenly the closeness is back, the heat too, full force, and Dean feels the quiet around them like a blanket, both safe and suffocating.

“Goodnight, Dean,” Cas says, and he has to say it to Dean’s profile, because there’s no way he’s looking at him now. Not when he’s so close and the air between them is sticky and his skin is still buzzing with a foreign arousal he can’t let himself look at.

“Yeah, night, Cas,” he says, fiddling with the controls of the radio for something to do with his hands, somewhere safe where to put his eyes.

When he finally raises his gaze again, Cas is gone. He breathes out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, here we are! Hope this chapter felt a little satisfying and that you guys are enjoying the slow burn of it all so far <3
> 
> If anyone's curious, worry stones are an actual thing and I think they look adorable, you can [see them here](https://www.etsy.com/market/wood_worry_stone)
> 
> I know I say this every single time, but this chapter is kind of a big deal and I really really am dying to know what you guys thought! If you leave a comment to let me know how you felt about it, I'll seriously love you forever, comments and kudos make my day!! <3 <3


	5. Warning - Cas POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little time jump in this one, Dean being a soft doofus, Cas being a mess, a thunderstorm and email drama <3 <3 <3
> 
> Thanks to my betas eyesofatragedy and tipofmemory for all their help with this!

They’re supposed to be shopping for gifts, Castiel knows that much. So he’s not sure how it is that they up in the arcade section of a large cinema, feet soaked and shirts sticking to their wet skin, Dean’s tinny laugh rumbling out of his chest and through Castiel’s own. Feet booming on the floor as they charge forward, Dean’s calloused fingers wrapped around Castiel’s wrist; breaking into a run without knowing where he’s being taken, and finding that he doesn’t really care.

It had all started out normal enough; they were just supposed to be picking up some toys for the twins’ upcoming birthday. Castiel had tried to object that the beautiful boat swing Dean was building them would be more than enough, but there had been a gleam in Dean’s eyes that betrayed his insecurities, and if a few toys could fix that, then Castiel was all for it.  
Dean hadn’t known when he’d be home exactly, so he wanted to be prepared. He hadn’t said it, but he was nervous about it, his nerves showing in the way he had fidgeted with his hands when he had asked Cas if he would be coming with him. He had looked at him from under his eyelashes, eyes wide and unsure, like there was an actual chance Castiel could have said no to him.

So they had jumped in the truck; and the ride had been nice, bickering about music, and traffic, and whether those tacos the night before were really the best to be had in Austin.

Neither of them paying much attention to their phones and to the flash-flood warnings popping on the screens almost rhythmically.

“Been saying it’s gonna rain for a week now. Texans get so dramatic about the damn rain; you’d think they’d never seen it before,” Dean had said, once Castiel had suggested they go back and postpone their shopping trip.

They had driven on then, weaving through the lanes of the interstate, and there had been a smug smirk on Dean’s face once they had pulled into the parking lot of a large shopping center and still hadn’t seen a drop of rain.

It had all fallen apart while they were sitting in a burger joint, Dean hungrily tearing into his sandwich, saying through stuffed cheeks that blue cheese only tastes good if melted on top of a patty. They had heard the rain before seeing it, fat drops noisily pelting the store’s glass walls, people rushing in soaked to the bone.

The waiter had eyed them suspiciously as they kept on munching on their lunches as slow as they could, quietly sitting at their little table, waiting for the rain to pass.

Running to the cinema had been Dean’s idea.

“Hey, looks like we’re stuck here for a while, might as well catch a movie and waste a couple hours, no?” he had said, pointing at the large movie theater across the parking lot, a hand already pulling the restaurant’s door open, letting the rain in.

“Son of a bitch!” he'd yelled, feet slipping as they hit the puddles on the ground. Castiel had followed him into the storm, flinching at the water soaking his loafers as he ran after him.

The rain had won that round, the both of them soaked to the bone by the time they had finally pushed through the building’s doors.

There had been a comment on Castiel’s lips then, something about how Dean should start actually listening to the forecasts and trusting technology, rather than the ache in his left knee.

It had died fast on his lips though, deflating as soon as he had laid eyes on the man shrugging out of his dripping flannel right there in front of him, leaving him almost bare in his thin grey t-shirt.

Dean had been all clinging fabrics and slow, tight muscles, moving under the freckled sheet of his damp skin; and Castiel’s mouth had dried up instantly, an unexpected wave of blushing heat coursing through his whole body at the sight. He had thought, irrationally, that it was inappropriate for Dean to look like _that_ in the middle of a busy theater, where anyone could see him, ogle at him, know what lays under the armor of his clothing at all times. Like Dean’s body was a delicate, private thing, to be shielded, to be cherished.

He had stared then, feeling a little wrong for it, and a little like he couldn’t have let that moment slip through his fingers without committing it to memory first.

The haze had been interrupted by Dean himself, his spine suddenly straight as he turned towards something Castiel couldn’t really see, his eyes alight with wild joy.

So Castiel knows how they end up in that fancy cinema, and yet it still doesn’t explain Dean’s breaking into a frantic run towards a brightly lit corner of the venue, dragging Castiel behind him without the shadow of an explanation.

Dean stops dead in his tracks once he reaches whatever it is that he has just spotted, shoes squelching on the damp carpet, shirt still wrapped around his hands and dripping water on the floor. His eyes are wide, shining with barely contained surprise and excitement.

“What is it, Dean?” Cas has to ask, alarmed, as he tries to follow his line of sight.

Dean doesn’t respond, not verbally at least. He just lifts an arm, slowly, index finger stretched out to point at a colorful-looking machine in the corner of the room

“Dude,” he starts, turning to him as a huge, sunny smile, stretches his way on his face, nestles dimples right into his cheeks, “it’s a giant Mario Kart machine,” he says, grinning all the way through it. And if Castiel didn’t know this man had survived Hell and the Apocalypse, and his soul is older than his body looks, he’d say he’s a child, as pure as they come.

He doesn’t resist when Dean pulls him towards the machines, damp fingers wrapped so tightly around Castiel’s wrist he almost hopes it’ll leave a mark there, so he never forgets this day and this smile, the childish joy thrumming through Dean’s body.

They have to buy special game cards to play, and Dean doesn’t even ask him before getting two of them and loading each with enough money to last them for way more games than Castiel intends to play. Castiel doesn’t even get to ask what they’re doing, before Dean’s taking off towards the machines again, glaring at a group of kids hard enough that they soon walk away looking scared.

“I'mma kick your ass so hard, man,” Dean says once they’re settled, a full body wiggle seemingly breaking out of him before he can stop himself.

“We will see about that,” Castiel replies, folding into his own seat, something clearly not meant to comfortably hold a six foot man. Then comes the painstakingly complex process of choosing a character and its ride, Dean huffing and puffing at his side to “just get a move on”, while he takes his time evaluating all the different combinations.

In the end, Castiel wins three times in a row, while Dean grows more and more cloudy at his side, grumbling about rigged games, and beginner’s luck, and blue shells being the worst possible form of betrayal humans can bestow upon each other.

On the fourth try Castiel drives straight off the edge of the twisty rainbow road, ends up in 7th position, and the pure glee in Dean’s face at finally winning is worth looking like a fool.

They do eventually make it to a mediocre screening of some action movie Castiel can’t manage to care about, and when they finally exit, late enough that most of the shops are closed, the rain appears to have finally ceased. They trudge back to the car, bellies full of buttery popcorn, heads fuzzy with the sleepiness induced by a not-so-great movie.

Dean keeps yawning, his jaw popping a couple times with the sheer force of his sleepiness, so Cas offers to drive. It even looks like Dean is going to relent, just for a second, before he shrugs and climbs into the driver's seat.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get the gifts for the twins,” Castiel offers once they’re back on the interstate, because Dean’s giddy happiness appears to be dimming by the second and it kinda seems like the right thing to say.

It isn’t. Dean just nods and sighs, muscles tensing up. “‘S fine,” he mumbles. “It’s been so long since they’ve seen me that they probably like all new stuff anyway.” He reaches for the radio controls like that’s gonna be the end of the talk.

“I kinda wanna try making them those tiny guitars, you know? Ukuleles or whatever?” he says after a bit, and Cas can’t really see through the darkness of the car, but he imagines a blush covering Dean’s cheeks as the words leave his mouth.

“That’s wonderful, Dean. Do they like music?” he asks, because, frankly, he’s not sure what three year olds like or are able to do.

Dean huffs a laugh, “Do they like music,” and he points at the dark silhouette of his phone where it’s tucked into the truck’s console. He unlocks it, then taps a few times to find something Castiel can’t yet see.

He’s about to start protesting about the dangers of texting and driving, when Dean wordlessly hands him the phone, a smile on his lips that’s equal parts fond and nostalgic.

It’s a video; Castiel presses play. It’s a little grainy, and the patched up screen does it no favors, but Castiel watches on anyway, almost can’t believe he’s being allowed such a glimpse into Dean’s life.

Dean’s green eyes greet him in video form. He’s sitting on the stairs of what looks like a little porch, the wood chipped, white paint peeling in places. He’s hugging a guitar close to his bare chest, freckles chasing each other on his golden skin. Castiel feels a nip of curiosity deep in his gut, almost brushes a thumb over the free expanse of skin.

Video Dean looks summer warm and carefree, a wide smile curling on his lips as they stretch around the words of a song he has never heard before.

“We’re jammin’,” says a young man in the video, brown hair swooping over his forehead as he smirks in amusement, cradling a squirming and squealing toddler to his chest. Ben, Castiel realizes, and one of the twins.

Video Dean laughs and strums the guitar, settling on an easy tune, head bowed low with the weight of the second twin climbing on his back and hanging tight on his neck.

“ _Five green and speckled frogs, sat on a speckled log, eating some most delicious bugs..._ ” Video Dean sings, voice gruff but in tune.

Castiel can feel his eyebrows jumping up on his forehead, warm amusement flushing his cheeks and bubbling into a laugh in his chest.

“ _YUM YUM..._ ” the toddler on Dean’s neck squeals, words rolling with a barely contained laugh, loud and bright in his ears. Her hair is sticking out in messy pigtails, face covered in freckles, deep brown eyes open wide in amusement and pure, unbridled joy.  
Video Dean recoils a little bit but keeps singing, for the toddlers’ delight, and Ben’s amusement.

Real life Dean smiles where he’s watching the road, a tiny thing that looks equal parts wistful and longing, and Castiel wishes he could reach out to him, cover his hand with his own and squeeze tight until the emptiness inside his chest has all but dissipated.

The video keeps going, and the family keeps singing about frogs and bugs until their eyes are so full of laughter they spill over and the video ends on the tinny sound of Lisa’s laugh behind the camera.

Castiel has never felt the need for a family, has never felt like there was something missing from his life; he’s been doing important work after all, work nobody else is willing to do. And that’s been enough for him.

That’s why he can’t really explain the pang of envy unfurling green in his chest, cold wisps curling around his ribs and his throat. And he doesn’t know if he envies Dean for having a family, or if he envies Lisa for having Dean.  
For having him in ways Castiel has never seen and is barely able to picture, a Dean who’s all easy smiles and loose, happy limbs, a carefree energy Castiel has never seen him wear.

It’s an unsettling thought either way, and he wishes not for the first time, that he was better equipped to deal with the emotions constantly battling inside him. Trying to figure it out, to make sense of the mess constantly firing up inside him, has been the biggest challenge about being a human. It’s been ten years, and he feels like he still has made little progress.

The road twists and turns and silence falls, Dean’s brick phone tucked back into the console, dark and silent.

Music splutters from the truck speakers, radio losing signal as they drive deeper into the hills. Castiel doesn’t mind. He’s got a simple melody stuck in his head, frogs and ponds and bugs, and a picture of so much sunkissed skin he wouldn’t know what to do with it all.

\---

The next day brings him three unwanted emails, a lot of Erin, and very little Dean. It’s not a great day.

It all starts right after his shower, when his phone beeps for his attention, alerting him there are new emails in his inbox. He archives the first two with barely a glance, it's the third one that manages to single-handedly ruin his day.

From: EmilyGB@gmail.com

To: novakcj@green-grace.com

Sent: Wednesday, May 29, 2019, 08:42 AM

Subject: SandersCorp meeting

Dear Mr. Novak,

Firstly, I’d like to apologize for using my personal email to contact you, and for taking the liberty to interrupt your vacation. I know this is unorthodox, and I simply want you to know I am fully aware of the consequences my actions might have.

I have immensely enjoyed my position at Grace for the past two years. I have learned a lot by working under you, and I will always be grateful for the chance of interacting with such a unique and interesting mind like yours. You have believed in me from the start, and I wouldn’t be the person I am now, or the professional I am now, if it hadn’t been for you.

It’s for these reasons that I feel it is my duty to pass along information that I fear is being kept from you. We have all heard there has been a very generous offer to buy out the company, and you have been very vocal about not wanting to sell. That’s why I was very surprised this morning, when I found out that later today there is going to be a meeting with the COO of SandersCorp. Mr. Winchell is going to be there, as well as Mrs. Phelps and Mr. Patel. When I asked to be included in the meeting, as per company policy, I was told it wouldn’t be necessary. When I insisted, Mr. Winchell made it very clear that the meeting was of confidential nature and no other employees would be allowed in. I am sure Mr. Winchell has informed you and this is all a big misunderstanding, but I couldn’t live with myself if I hadn’t first made sure you had full knowledge of the current events.

I hope you understand where I’m coming from and why I felt the need to write this.

Warm regards,

Emily Moore

It takes him about 90 seconds to read the email the first time, then seven minutes to re-read it over and over again, words not really making sense, until they do; and when they do, they sting.

Why would Evan be meeting with people from SandersCorp, when they have already decided to decline their offer? It just doesn’t make any sense.

Maybe the meeting is to let them know they’re declining? But even so, it wouldn’t have to be a confidential one.

He sits down, re-reads Emily’s words carefully. He’s always liked her; she’s smart and resourceful, even if a little shy, and he’s got no reason to doubt her heart being in the right place.

But then, he doesn’t have a reason to doubt Evan would keep something so big from him either.

Panic creeps in while he’s distracted, his head swirling with a million and one different scenarios, none of which really make any sense, none of which seem able to placate him.

He ends up lying on the bed, a hand on his chest to feel it rise and fall as he breathes, thinking it’s almost funny how he’s been so wrapped up in Dean and their little adventures, the road and the songs, the thunderstorms, that he had almost forgotten how awful this feels.

When he finally swallows a pill, it’s without regret.

-

Dean comes by for lunch with a beer and a brisket sandwich.

“‘ade it m’self, can’t tell you how, tho,” he tells him, grinning, cheeks stuffed so full that he slurs all the words and Castiel misses about half of it. They eat them on a bench at the park in front of Castiel’s hotel, dogs and joggers alike enviously eyeing their food at every pass. The bench is tiny and they sit close, thighs bumping together, shoulders brushing. Castiel finds that he doesn’t mind the easy closeness, even when it starts to get a touch too warm and their sweaty forearms stick together a little. He chats, listens to Dean ramble about a pecan pie he had tried the day before, loses himself in the deep rumble of his voice. He doesn’t think about the email once.

Eventually Erin arrives to pick him up and eyes the two of them with an arched eyebrow reeking of disapproval.

“Guess I’d better go,” Cas mutters quietly, the small spaces where their skin touches now feeling sticky, inflamed under Erin’s judgemental stare.

“Oh, here. You didn’t grab one at the shop the other day, but you liked ‘em, so I thought-” Dean’s speaking softly when he says it, eyes dropped on the ground as he digs into the pocket of his jeans. When his hand comes out there’s a small stone cradled gently in it, the wood a rich red, shiny and smooth, a small “C” engraved at the center.

“A worry stone? Dean you shouldn’t-” he stammers, softly, a little stunned. Dean seems to take his surprise for dislike because he’s quick to close his fist over the stone again, a hand rubbing the back of his neck as he takes a step back.

“Yeah, you’re right, ‘was a dumb idea anyways. What’s a guy like you gon’ do with a tiny piece of crap like this. I mean, you wear suits, where would you even put this. Not in a suit. Yeah, no, dumb idea. I’ll just-” he blubbers, and he’s speaking so fast Castiel’s getting whiplash. “I’ll get going,” he finishes, a muscle twitching in his jaw and a blush reddening his cheeks, body already half turned away from Castiel, like he’s about to bolt.

There isn’t much of a thought aside from _I can’t let him go like this_ , before Castiel reaches out a hand and curls it tight around Dean’s fist.

The sudden contact seems to shock Dean into stillness, and Castiel speaks into the stunned silence, “Dean, thank you. I love it,” he tells him, fingers sliding into Dean’s to get his hand to open again. “I will carry it around in every suit I own,” he smiles, teasing, the little stone now warm in his own palm.

Dean sags a little with relief, bites his lower lip through a huffing laugh. “Yeah, alright,” he mumbles. “See ya later, Cas.”

Cas doesn’t let go of the stone for the rest of the day.

\---

The city lights are blinking sleepily at him through the open window of his hotel room, and he’s deep into a Pinterest link about centerpieces, when Evan finally calls him.

“Hi, baby,” Evan greets him, voice a little soft and a little tired, the way he gets when he stays at the office too late. Castiel can picture him, eyes squinting at the screen, white sleeves carelessly rolled up to his elbows now that there’s no one else in the office to watch him.

“Hey. You still at work?” he asks, guilt already pooling in his gut at not being there to help out, to share the responsibility.

“Yeah. It’s been a long day, but before you ask, things are fine, we’re good, I am handling it and there’s nothing for you to worry your pretty little head about.”

“I hate it when you say that,” he grimaces.

“I know,” is the only reply, and Cas can practically hear the little smirk in his voice. He rolls his eyes and focuses on what’s important, on the list of questions he has about the company. Because no matter what Evan says, his head isn’t very pretty, but it’s always very worried, especially about his company.

Evan doesn’t seem thrilled to be questioned about work but he begrudgingly answers Castiel’s questions, barging in with his own about the wedding every so often.

They’re almost about to hang up when Castiel finally gets to the question he really wants to ask.

“Hey, we have rejected SandersCorp’s proposal from last month, right?” he asks, treading lightly; he’s had all day to think about this, and he doesn’t want to throw Emily under the bus if he can help it.

Evan is silent for just a beat too long. “Yeah, babe, you know we have. Why would you ask that?” he says, and if Cas hadn’t known him for almost ten years, he might have missed the clipped edge of his tone.

“I know you, Patel, and Phelps met with their COO today,” he blurts out, fingers absentmindedly running back and forth on Dean’s worry stone.

The silence stretches longer this time, long enough for Cas’s chest to start constricting, breaths now sticky in his lungs, like tar.

“We did. They’re a huge company, Cassie! Did you really think we could just refuse their proposal via email?” Evan says eventually, his words sharp, cutting. “This is why you’re the hardware and I’m the shiny front end of this company. You’re a smart one, baby, but if I had let you run our social relations, we would have shut the doors a while ago,” he scoffs.

“I see. Yeah, I guess that makes sense,” he rasps out, feeling too small for his skin now, an ant under Evan’s gaze.

“Cassie, I need you to trust me on this. We can’t keep being this successful if you’re second guessing my every move. I want this even more than you do,” he says, and Castiel knows it’s true, has seen the ambition burning like a flame in Evan’s eyes.

“I know, it’s just- I can’t-”

“You can’t let go? Yeah, no shit. That’s why we had to send you to Texas, because you were holding on so tight you were about to snap. You just don’t know how to quit, do you? You’re lucky you have me to tell you.”

There’s a rebuttal trying to crawl out of Castiel’s throat, but it never makes it past his lips.  
He looks at the stone in his palm and wishes he could bury all his racing thoughts inside it, never to be opened again. Maybe Evan is right. He overthinks everything; he holds on so tightly he chokes the life out of everything he touches.

“I’m sorry,” he says, even if he’s not sure what he’s apologizing for.

“It’s alright. I know how you get; that’s why I didn’t mention it. I was trying to give you some space, away from the company. You know, I’m sitting here in the office at 9pm so that you could have your little mental health trip. I think that warrants some trust, Castiel.” Evan’s tone is cold now, anger simmering below the surface. “Who told you about it anyways? Was it Emily? That little snake has always been in love with you, thinks you’re her handsome knight in shining armor.”

“Emily does not-”

“So it _was_ her then. Glad to know where her loyalties lie,” Evan snarks, and it’s clear from the tone of his voice that there’s nothing Castiel can say or do at this point that will prevent her from being fired.

He doesn’t want her to, but maybe Evan’s right, maybe his sight is all fogged up because of his stupid, malfunctioning brain, and he’s not seeing the bigger picture.

When Evan asks him to let him handle things and stop asking so many questions, Castiel agrees, and he apologises again.

The stone is still in his palm when he falls asleep that night, his thumb running circle after circle on its smooth surface, like every sweep of his thumb is a thought crumpled and swept off his brain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, Cas chapters are being a little more erratic than Dean's, but I feel like that's due to his mind frame in this; he's a little all over the place so the way he experiences things is also a little bit messy. I hope this was still linear enough to be enjoyed, clearly I love me some soft pining boys, so hopefully you caught that too! <3
> 
> Being the needy author that I am, I'll once again say how much kudos and comments mean to me, if you take the time to let me know what you think of this story you're seriously making my day!!


	6. At the cabin - Dean POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the cabin, and its owner! He came back to the show and to my fic at the same time, and we didn't even plan it!  
> So here's Garth, Dean using beers as a coping mechanism, Cas being a clueless dumbass, and a healthy dose of pining and UST for your enjoyment ;)
> 
> As usual, thanks to eyesofatragedy and tipofmemory, who catch all my bad commas and listen to all my rants
> 
> Also; I have made a lil fanart to go with the chapter, I am trying to learn how to draw (yay for learning new skills as an adult!) and I'd like to add a few drawings here and there as a way to embellish the story and also practice. It's gonna be embedded at the end of the chapter 💙
> 
> But most importantly... LOOK AT THAT HEADER!!!😭😭😭😭I am forever crying over [huckleberrycas](https://huckleberrycas.tumblr.com/) ' kindness in gifting me this awesome awesome work; it's so pretty and so perfect for this story and I'm just very overwhelmed, go give them some love!

Some nights, after too many hours cooped up in the workshop all by himself, Dean’s in the mood to talk to another human being. Most times, though, he’s in the mood to stare at a screen and watch things getting blown to pieces while he sips on a beer and the rest of world fucks off for a while.

Tonight it’s the latter, but, it turns out, the universe has very different plans for him.

He makes it home through snail-paced traffic that never seems to let up; and the time it takes him to shrug off his bag full of tools and other crap, find a chair that isn’t gonna fall apart under his weight, and pop a beer open, is exactly the same time it takes Garth to find him.

Garth doesn’t start talking, not right away; he knows better than that. He just nods and folds his scrawny body on a creaky chair that definitely wouldn’t have been so forgiving to Dean.  
He clearly has learned something about Dean in the past several weeks, because he slams two more beers on the dusty table, all without saying anything.  
They don’t even turn the TV on, sipping on their beers in silence, the clicking of the old ass AC of the cabin enough of a background noise for their thoughts.

“So, what happened between you an’ Lisa?” Garth asks eventually, right when Dean starts thinking he might just be about to fall asleep right where he sits.

Dean is on the wrong side of being too tired and too warm to really get angry at this point, especially at Garth. Garth, who’s nice and hugs him way too much and has let him stay in his cabin without asking questions for months now.  
The sigh that escapes his mouth drowns immediately in a sip of beer, but Dean knows he can only stall for so long.

“What happened? Man, I don’t even know,” he grunts, passing a hand over his face, feeling the rough drag of every calloused patch on his palm.

There’s only silence and what feels to him like an annoyingly encouraging and supportive look on the other side, so he goes on.

“I wasn’t planning on leaving, y’know. ‘S not like I woke up one morning and hauled my sorry ass to Texas and left my family behind, just like that.”

The next sip he takes sloshes unpleasantly in his stomach. He plows on.

“It just sorta happened, I guess. One job, then another and another, and you know, bunch ‘a weeks passed, then months. Been, what, five months now?” Garth only nods, eyes clear of judgement.

“Uh, yeah, so. Five months and I’m still here so...” he lets the words trail off by themselves, plunge over a cliff overlooking nothing. Just a big blank bunch of white nothingness, his thoughts.

“So what?” Garth asks, thumb peeling the damp label of his Lone Star. The stare Dean gives him back is confused and blank, and he moves on.  
“It’s been long, sure. Been longer than either of y’all thought, but so what? You still got a family, Winchester. Those don’t really come with an expiration date, you know,” he says, blue eyes wide and kind, body hunched over the table; Dean thinks he looks too young to sound that wise.

There’s a retort ready to plunge out of Dean’s mouth; any second now, he’s gonna say it. He’s gonna say that maybe family doesn’t expire, but Lisa’s love for him certainly does, probably did a while ago; and they’ve both been pretending, scraping away the moldy, dead bits, and making do with the little that was left, never mentioning how it kept getting thinner and thinner each day. He’s gonna say that when he’s alone at night, he sometimes thinks he can’t ever go back, because he’s too afraid there won’t be anything left waiting for him.

It’s another sip of beer he takes instead, as the words trickle back down his throat and into his aching stomach, to be burned away in acid and waste.

He shrugs and sighs deeply as he puts the bottle back on the table, to add to the little collection of perfectly rounded stains.  
Garth takes his silence for the dismissal that it’s meant to be and lets Dean be, settling next to him quietly.  
They listen to the rain patter on the roof and to their bones getting more achy the damper it gets, and Dean feels the humid stench of disappointing a friend again like a rotten thing in his mouth.

It’s a long, hazy, time before Garth speaks again, so long that Dean actually startles out of his mellow stupor like he's been woken up by a bucket of cold water being dumped on his head.  
“I’ve got a case if you feel like it,” he says, not quite looking at Dean, like he’s unsure he’s doing the right thing.

It’s weird, what happens next. Because Dean hasn’t hunted anything since the apocalypse, hasn’t _wanted_ to hunt anything, has almost lost his own brother over it; and yet, the first thing that flickers through his mind, is interest, curiosity. The second is a vague picture of a tan coat and a sharp dagger.

“Yeah? Haven’t been hunting much lately,” he forces himself to say, even though it’s the understatement of the year and they both know it. “Be kinda nice to get back on the saddle, I guess.” And he’s surprised to find that, in that exact moment, he actually means it.

“It’s ghouls. Bunch of ‘em nesting out in my nan’s cemetery. Went to visit her the other week and saw the signs, but there’s too many for me to take out on my own. Figured I could use an extra pair a’ hands, if you’re up for it.”

“I am. I mean, uh, might be a little rusty, but uh- I can ask Cas, too. Three of us should be more than enough for a couple skinny ghouls, rusty or not.”

“Cas?” Garth asks him, confused, and shit, Dean realises he has to explain that whole Castiel clusterfuck, and he doesn’t really know where to start.

“He’s a- uh- He’s an old friend, used to be a hunter way back when. Sorta. Met him the other day at a bar; pretty sure he’d be into it if I asked,” he says and his words sound more sure than he feels. Then he pictures Cas and the way he looks every now and then; strung so tight, almost brittle, the same way Dean gets sometimes and doesn’t say. That glint in his eyes, the need to do something, anything that isn’t the same old survival routine.

“He any good?”

“Used to be. We, um-, we used to work pretty close for a while.” He’s stumbling through his words like a flustered child and he knows it, but he can’t stop.  
Memories of strength and steely eyes and a presence always next to him, at his back, working in synch, all melting with excitement at the prospect of a hunt.

There are no more questions about Cas, Lisa, or the hunt, and Dean can’t help but feeling grateful to Garth and his easy-going attitude. Eventually, they just nod each other goodnight, and Dean trudges to the small room he’s been calling home for the past few months.

He sends a text to Castiel that same night, right before he goes to sleep, tucked under the scratchy duvet, eyes squinting at the too-bright screen of his phone in the dark.

They’re gonna meet up; he’s gonna tell him about the ghouls, about the hunt, and it’s gonna be great.

Like old times.

His heartbeats are fast, in excitement and fear.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep.

\---

They do meet up the next day, sitting in a crowded coffee shop downtown. Cas is anxiously flipping through a brochure that looks wedding-related, when Dean does tell him about the hunt. It’s not great, not even close.

“No,” is the first word that actually comes out of Castiel’s mouth once Dean is done with his speech. It’s better than the semi-horrified, semi-stunned silence that precedes it, but it’s still not what Dean had been hoping for.

“Dean, I haven’t hunted anything in years. And I thought- I thought you said you were done with it, too,” Cas says, more curious than accusatory.

“I was,” he says. “I am. But this, you know, it’s a small job. You’re here, I’m here, I just thought. Shit, I dunno. Just thought it might be nice, is all,” he says, and with every syllable he utters he can feel his shoulders shrinking a little on themselves, can feel his body making himself smaller under the scrutiny of Castiel’s eyes.

Suddenly he feels stupid, foolish, a little boy with a big shiny gun and nothing to aim it at, shoulders bony and swimming in a too-big leather jacket that was never meant for him.

He’s about to tell him to forget it, to apologize for even bringing it up. He’ll call Sam and he’ll deal with it, and Dean can be fine with being powerless and useless. He _is_ ; he _chose_ this, the peaceful life he’s always wanted. He’s good with it. It was a damn stupid idea anyways.

The words are right on the cusp of his lips, and any second now he’s gonna say them, but then there’s a hand wrapped around his shoulder, tentative and a little timid, but firm.

He looks at it questioningly, like he doesn’t already know who it belongs to.

“Dean,” Cas says, face closer and bent lower so he can catch Dean’s downcast eyes.  
“I think- I don’t know how much use I’d be really, but if you think we can make it work, then, I guess... I guess it would be nice to do it. Together,” he adds at the end, so soft Dean almost misses it and wonders whether it really was meant for him.

When Castiel smiles a small smile and tells him he had always wanted to be a “fellow hunter”, complete with air finger quotes, Dean can’t help but smile back.

And suddenly there’s a warmth spreading under his ribs, but he doesn’t say it.

They drink their overpriced coffee, John’s old diary open on the table between them, next to Cas’s little paper samples, and things feel more normal than they have for the past ten years.

\---

Turns out, there’s a lot Dean doesn’t remember about hunting. The basics he knows: be prepared, be armed, be awake. It’s all the quiet parts he forgot, all the in-between spaces that separate him from the monsters on the other side; the ones when the adrenaline is just a low simmer in his veins, more anticipation than anything else, the scent of something you can’t quite grab solid between your fingers. When there isn’t that much to do but getting stocked up on weapons and re-reading information you already know.

It’s the night before the hunt, and it’s boring and tense; he’s pacing back and forth, checking and rechecking stuff, and he knows Garth’s looking at him funny. He hasn’t paced this much since Lisa gave birth to the twins. Somehow he doubts this night is going to end with his heart tripling in size and the feeling of being exactly where you belong.

He thinks about calling Lisa before the hunt, just in case, because what if it all goes south? What if Dean is truly as old as he feels, and he can’t manage to get out with his skin intact?

There had never been consequences to his life hanging by a thread on a daily basis, before, when it was just him and Sammy and the Impala. His brother had always been able to take care of himself. Dean had always known he’d grieve, if something happened to him, but he’d survive. It’s different now, with a teenager and two toddlers, and medical insurance, and fucking pre-K enrollment fees.  
Suddenly he feels the responsibility again, its slimy weight nestling in the dip of his throat and down, in the cramped space between his lungs and his liver. He closes his eyes and all he can see are the people who count on him, the ones he can’t and doesn’t ever want to disappoint.

There’s an itch in his fingers for something, _anything_ to do. The beer in the cooler seems to be calling to him, and he grabs one, then another, sipping them while they’re still ice cold and rearranging the order of the knives in Garth’s bag until the man himself has to shoo him away.  
He picks a machete, then, and files it until it’s so sharp it could cut paper.

“Everything’s in order man; it’ll be fine,” Garth tells him when he picks up his third beer in fifteen minutes, eyes a little too wide and a little too knowing for Dean’s taste. “You sure you’re alright?” he asks him.

“‘M fine,” he nods. The beer is ice cold and swirls unpleasantly in his stomach, sweat beading on his forehead.

He’s not fine. He feels a little sick.

He picks up the phone for something to do, and he swears, all his thoughts are about calling Lisa and Lisa only.

So it’s not clear to him how he ends up with Cas’s name flashing on the screen, waiting for him to pick up.

When he finally does, voice gruff and rough, it feels like it’s too soon and too late at the same time. Dean’s palms are a little too sweaty where they grip the phone, and it slips just so in his hand.

It feels like it should be easy, to ask Cas to come by and help prepare things, get them ready, make an actual plan that goes beyond “run in, guns blazing, and hope for the best”; but when Dean tries to speak, he finds his mouth suddenly very dry, voice raspy.

He pictures him, crisp white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, frowning over what color to pick for the tablecloths at his damn wedding, and suddenly feels like a fool. Who is Dean to keep him from his perfect little life? Just because he hates his own, it doesn’t give him the right to barge into someone else’s picture perfect frame and plunge them into the gory mess of a hunt.

The silence stretches too long and Dean doesn’t know how to break it, doesn’t know how to say that he’s sorry he even brought this crap up, sorry he’d gone to that bar, sorry he’s keeping everyone from living life the way they should.

“Dean? You alright?” Cas asks him, all sudden and genuine concern.

“‘M sorry,” he blurts out, stomach now lodged in his throat for some reason, and he doesn’t know what his next words are going to be. “I- uh, yeah, no, didn’t mean to call. I’m sure you’re busy. Wedding and shit, and yeah, fuck- sorry,” is what comes out of his mouth, and he has to retreat to his room to make sure Garth won’t be a spectator to the trainwreck that this conversation is shaping up to be.

Castiel is silent for a beat, static filling Dean’s ears as he wonders if he should just cut the call and call it a day.

“I am not busy. You’d be surprised, there’s only so much talk about flower arrangements a man can take,” Castiel says eventually, voice almost unnaturally still, calm, a lake with waters so deep and so clear it makes Dean want to close his eyes and just sink into it a little.

“I meant to call you actually. Should we meet to discuss the plan for tomorrow? I might not be the strategist I used to be, but I believe I could still offer some assistance if you need it,” he offers, a simple outstretched palm, and Castiel might not know it, might not even realize how tired, how parched Dean is, how needily he’s going to clutch at his hand.

“Uh, yeah, I guess. I mean, yes, that’d be good,” he rasps, swallowing his thundering heart down. “Garth’s here, at the cabin I mean, if you wanna come meet him too,” and he’s kinda proud of how his voice almost manages to sound nonchalant.

“That sounds great, Dean. I will be there shortly,” and fuck if the words don’t settle like a cool balm over his knotted insides.

There’s no goodbye; the call just clicks shut, and Dean breathes slow against the cool surface of his phone, head thumping against the door where he slumps a little.

A better person, he supposes, would spend the following minutes thinking about what it all means- that he’s accepting to go on a hunt after a decade of pretending this life was behind him for good, that he’s not telling his brother about it, that he’s not calling his wife when he feels like he might be about to fall apart; that the velvet rumble of Castiel’s voice, the mere promise of his presence, is enough to bring Dean back from the brink, push air into his too tight lungs.

Dean’s not that person, never really has been, and he figures it’s too late for him to start now.

So he spends the time triple-checking his weapons instead, guzzling down another beer and pretending he’s not nervous about any of it.

It doesn’t really work.

\---

It’s almost an hour later, when the bright headlights of Castiel’s car briefly illuminate the inside of the cabin, and Dean has to resist the urge to speed to the door, letting Garth introduce himself first instead.

It’s weird, watching them interact, their heads bent over the cemetery’s layout, arguing about strategy and timing and hand-to-hand combat. Dean spaces out, mouth cotton dry, head foggy as he nears the end of what was a six pack; but he still manages to nod in all the right places, pretending he still believes this is a good idea and it’s not gonna come back and bite them in the ass.

They all disagree on the best way to go about this, and Dean knows his old self would have simply taken the reins of the whole thing and frowned and growled until everyone had agreed to go along with his plan. He wishes he could summon that same self-assurance now.

“Just gotta slice the damn head off. What’s there to mess up?” he grumbles eventually, rubbing at his eyes and feeling every one of his forty years weighing right on his shoulders.

Turns out there’s a lot to mess up, and both Garth and Cas waste no time in telling him. He lets them, just for a minute, until the sickly feeling returns to his stomach and he has to excuse himself because he feels like he might puke all over their neat little papers otherwise.

He manages the short walk to the patio with only minor stumbling, bristling a little at his apparent newfound inability to hold liquor.

The air is warm and sticky, and the wood is damp under his ass when he finally slumps on the crooked steps. He can see a couple roaches scurrying away from where his feet have kicked the dusty soil around. Dirty fuckers. He watches them until his eyes blur a little and he can’t distinguish the shapes in the darkness.

When he manages to shape his thoughts into something that makes sense, all he sees is May’s face, her bright eyes, her chubby hands, picking at tiny bugs, asking him what they are, playing with them fearlessly, a child-like wonder he doubts he has ever possessed.

It prickles in his eyes for a moment, spreads like a bruise in his chest, a dull and deep ache, how much he misses his kids, how wrong it is for him to be so far away. The distance between them is almost a tangible thing, a highway of longing that stretches on and on, so long Dean can’t ever see the end of it.

He kinda wants to go back in the cabin to fetch himself a stiffer drink, kinda wants to fuck off in the Impala and never look back.

He just sits with his head hanging heavy in his hands, on his knees, eyes shut so tight that if tears ever come he won’t be able to tell.

It’s an indeterminate amount of time later that Castiel joins him. Dean wouldn’t know how long, the croaking of frogs in the nearby creek lulling him into a space that feels empty and boundless. The steps creak in protest when Cas sits down next to him, his body a solid line of warmth at Dean’s side, not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the heat radiate through his clothes.

“If I ask you what’s wrong, will you answer me?” is what Cas says after a while, his voice steady and low. Dean would call it intimate if that was a word he actually used.

He scoffs a little, lifts his head from where it was buried in the circle of his arms, keeps his eyes on the blurry outline of the bushes around them.

“You’re a weird fucker, aren’t you, Cas. Always have been,” he slurs, words bumping into each other, like there isn’t enough space in his mouth to say them all. He doesn’t turn to look at Cas’s profile, knows if he did, he'd see pale moonlight pooling over his cheekbones, turning his face into a black and white statue, shadows chasing each other over his sharp features.

Castiel doesn’t turn to look at him either. Apparently eye contact isn’t a thing they do these days. Figures.

“Suppose I am,” Cas shrugs, deadpan and serious, like he genuinely doesn’t know, isn’t insulted, merely curious.

It reminds Dean so much of his early angelic days that it punches a laugh right out of his chest. It’s a strange little chuckle, rising from the depths of his belly, a little strangled in his throat; and he really wants to stop himself, but he simply can’t. So he lets it out, the weird, wet, hysterical laugh. Because after swearing he’d never leave his perfect little Kansas life behind, he’s sitting on his damp ass, in a roach infested yard in Texas, an angel who’s not really an angel anymore by his side, getting ready to gank some creepy ass monsters together.

A chuckle turns into a full-out belly laugh, and suddenly there are tears leaking from his eyes, and he genuinely feels like he’s finally done it, finally lost his damn mind. Miracle he’s even made it this far, honestly.

Castiel, for his part, lets him have his moment of insanity; doesn’t really comment on it, just turns a little to look at him, mouth ticking up on one side only, like he’s trying to fight a smile, but not hard enough. His face in the moonlight is as chieseld and enticing as Dean had pictured, and he’s a little glad he let himself look.

It’s only when his laugh finally simmers down to a chuckle that he notices Cas’s hands are wrapped around the neck of a dusty bottle of JW, an even dustier glass sitting next to him, empty and unassuming.

Cas must notice his line of sight.

“Garth said you might need this,” he says, voice even as he hands him both items.

Dean’s next breath cracks into a tired sigh. He reaches for the bottle wordlessly and fills up the glass, reminding himself for the upteenth time that day, to be less of a shitty friend to Garth in the future.

The scotch is warm in his throat, prickles in his nostrils for just a moment before settling in his stomach. When he raises his head again he can feel Castiel’s eyes boring into his profile.

“What does it taste like?” he asks eventually, and Dean’s reminded of the twins again, of their boundless curiosity, the wonder in their eyes. There’s the same glint in Cas’s eyes right now, his gaze open and blue even in the dark.

It’s uncanny, the childlike quality of him, when Dean knows he’s never been a child, sprung to life fully formed and powerful. Until he met Dean Winchester, that is. Then thrust into a human infancy of sorts, lost, wingless and blind, all because of Dean.

He has to take another swig to convince himself his mouth doesn’t actually taste like ashes.

“Bitter,” he replies eventually, and it’s easier to look at the dust at his feet than the pools of Cas’s eyes.

He’s so focused on his own internal dilemma, that he startles when a hand appears in front of his face. Long, tanned fingers, strong. Cas reaching for his glass.  
He’s got half a mind to tell him to go fetch himself another one; then he remembers he’s not a sissy who worries about germs and spit swapping. He slides the glass into Cas’s waiting hand and their fingers are warm where they brush together.

He turns his head then, because how can he not? When Cas is so close, lips chapped and soft against the condensation of the glass, curled around what Dean guesses is his first sip of scotch. Dean watches it all happen like it’s the most interesting thing he’s ever witnessed, mesmerized by the muscles of Cas’s throat like the first man on the moon by his own footprints.  
Cas smacks his lips together; his eyes water a little but don’t spill over.

“So?” he asks through his dry mouth, reaching for the bottle and filling the glass once more, still cradled in Cas’s hand.

Cas considers the question for a moment longer than anyone else would have, never much one for polite conversation.

“Warm,” he breathes, frowning and serious, a glimpse of pink between his lips, like he’s tasting the drops left in the grooves of his skin. “I can see why you like it.”

Wordlessly, he tips the newly filled glass back to his waiting mouth, like he’s parched for the taste of the liquor.

Dean watches him for a second longer, then steals the glass back for himself, his whole body now yearning to feel the same fire spreading slow from his mouth to his belly.

They sit on the damp steps a while longer, frogs keep croaking in their creek, roaches keep running through the rocks, Dean and Cas keep passing the same dusty glass between the two of them. Sometimes they talk, sometimes they just sit, and by the time Dean’s eyelids start to feel heavier than the bottle, it’s deep into the night.

“It’s late,” he hears himself say suddenly, his voice a thunder in the peaceful darkness, “you should stay.” He’s not sure why he adds the second part. He sure as fuck hadn’t been planning on saying that a moment before; it just slipped out. It makes sense though, he reasons, makes all the sense in the world for Cas to stay right here, where Dean can see him and the way the light plays off his skin.

He’s relieved when Cas nods, and it’s weird, because Dean hadn’t even known it mattered to him whether he stayed or not.

Garth is nowhere to be found when they get back inside, his rumbly snores audible through the cracked door of his room.

“We moved the couch to my room when we got the recliners. Garth doesn’t exactly have guests over anyways,” Dean offers when he sees Cas eyeing the living room questioningly. “Follow me.”

He leads the way to the guest room he’s been calling his own for the past few months, Cas following wordlessly.

It’s strange, once they’re both in there; turns out two six foot men fill up the space pretty quickly. The door makes a dull click when Dean shuts it behind him, and it feels weirdly final, borderline inappropriate. An almost palpable tension immediately filling up the space, soaking into the bare floorboards, into the dull, dusty wood of the old furniture; into Dean’s skin, his lungs, with every breath he sucks in. He wonders for a second if Cas can feel it too, almost doesn’t want to turn and see. He stands there for too long, and he knows it, hand curled around the doorknob; like with a simple flick of his wrist, he could still change his mind, order Cas out of his room and his life, breathe air that isn’t saturated with his smell.

When he finally lets go and turns to face the room, he finds Cas staring at him from the other side, his gaze as intense and indecipherable as ever. It sets a shiver free on his spine, and Dean has to swallow around the sudden tightness in his throat and tell himself it’s 'cause of the poor insulation of the room.

“Feel free to uh- move my crap and whatever,” he whispers, gesturing at the mess piled haphazardly on the couch. “I can- I’ll get you clothes, to sleep in,” he adds, because it’s a way like any other to get out from under the heat of those eyes on him.

He rifles through his drawers until he finds some shorts and a worn grey t-shirt that’s still all splattered with pink paint from when he painted the twins’ room. He can hear Castiel moving his things off the couch and has to tell himself that this is happening, and it’s fine.

There’s only so much time they can waste on fluffing pillows and fetching clothes, and soon they’re facing each other again, the air between their bodies suddenly too warm and sticky.  
Dean offers up his ratty clothes, and Cas reaches out to take them, but doesn’t move for a few more seconds, fingers still just a breath away from Dean’s where they’re both holding the bundle of clothing between them.

There’s a delirious urge - in Dean’s muscles, in his bones, in the impatient way his blood rushes beneath his skin - to sway a little, just a breath of a movement, just enough to brush their fingers together and feel if the electricity Cas seems to radiate really is there. In the space between his fingers.

Then Castiel steps back and the moment is broken, shattered silently like it had never been there in the first place.

“Thank you, Dean.” And he says it like he means it, like the bundle in his hands is more than a bunch of mostly ruined fabric.

Dean isn’t really sure what the fuck is going on anymore, wishes it was day again, wishes it was Kansas again and Castiel was the name of a memory only.

“Yeah, you got it,” he mumbles. “‘M gonna go change,” 'cause it somehow sounds better than telling Cas he feels a little like the room is shrinking on him and he can’t breathe.

The bathroom’s light is too bright in his eyes when he gets there, the water from the tap isn’t cold enough on his clammy skin. He takes a piss that feels like it goes on for an eternity, tries to pretend that everything is normal and he’s not feeling like crawling out of his skin.

When he looks in the tiny mirror above the sink, his face looks flushed, his eyes bright and almost wild. He tells his reflection to get it together and doubts it’ll obey him.

When he gets back to the room, Cas is already laying on the couch, threadbare duvet pooling at his waist, light turned off, looking at the shadow of the ceiling fan spinning lazily. They don’t really acknowledge each other and Dean is grateful, makes fast work of slipping under the covers and curling towards the wall, where all he can see is the splintering wood of his bedside table. If he focuses on it hard enough, he can almost pretend not to feel Cas’s presence mere feet away, can pretend he’s back at Lisa’s place, waiting for her to finish her book and come to bed, put her cold toes on his shin.

“Goodnight, Dean.” Cas says it so soft that Dean almost misses it, like it wasn’t really meant to be heard. And just like that the pretense falls, a veil pooling on the ground, soundless.

Dean holds a breath in his lungs, pretends to be asleep and doesn’t say it back, couldn’t find a voice to do it even if he wanted to.

_You’re a long way from Kansas, Winchester_ , he thinks, before he falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I was gonna give you pining and I didn't lie, the boys are just the messiest, I love them a lot <3  
> What did you guys think of Garth?? The hunt?? The UST?? I really hope you enjoyed it all, especially that last bed(room) sharing bit, cause you're gonna see Cas's side of it in chapter 7! ;)
> 
> I would LOVE to hear from you guys, I am so so grateful for everyone who has been reading/leaving kudos/commenting/reblogging already, it makes me so happy to know there are so many people coming along for this journey and reading your thoughts on this is the best part of posting this story 💙
> 
> Come say hi [on tumblr](https://flurryflair.tumblr.com/) tumblr if you like!


	7. The hunt - Cas POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's posting day, my favorite day! I really wanna thank everyone who has been reading this fic, subscribing to it, promoting it and generally supporting me through this process. I'm going through a lot of big changes in my real life, so to have this source of positivity and encouragement means so so much to me <3
> 
> Lotsa thanks to my betas, [eyesofatragedy ](https://eyesofatragedy67.tumblr.com/) and [ tipofmemory ](https://tipofmemory.tumblr.com/) too, because this fic is a lot of work and they are always there to help!
> 
> Again I have been blessed by another awesome artwork by [huckleberrycas](https://huckleberrycas.tumblr.com/) and I have spent the past few days just gazing lovingly at it, and now you can too! 😍
> 
> This chapter is a big one so you guys buckle up and get ready for more cabin shenanigans, the hunt, and the mess that follows ;)

Garth’s cabin is creaky and dusty in the corners, seems to shift and move like a living thing around him. And that night Cas spends a long time with his eyes wide open in the dark, watching the shadows move on the ceiling, on the walls, on Dean’s sleeping form. Wondering if they are watching him back too.

The liquor they consumed, swapping the same glass back and forth - lips touching the same spots, but never at the same time - it pools in Cas’s stomach. He can feel it there like a solid weight; can feel it in his head, foggy and warm, light.

The ceiling fan spins, and Castiel spins with it. He lies sprawled on the musty couch, a hand on his chest, thumb rubbing back and forth over the worn fabric.  
It smells like detergent, and a little bit like leather and sweat, so faint it’s almost as if Castiel is imagining it. He probably is. To him, it smells like Dean.

He indulges a little, the warmth in his chest clouding his brain, making his defenses so thin they might as well be made of smoke. The scent is so much stronger when Cas drags the collar over his nose, inhales and exhales, his breath warm under the confines of the shirt.

He indulges a little more then, pictures Dean wearing this same fabric, it stretching over his broad shoulders, pooling around his trim waist. Dean is built like a tree, solid and sturdy but graceful and delicate at the same time. Castiel slides his palms down to his own waist and wonders what touching Dean would feel like.

The thought is so sudden, so thick, laced with longing, that Castiel almost laughs at it. It feels warm under his ribs, the tingling feeling spreading all the way down to his gut, traveling through his groin and into his thighs.

He follows the feeling with his fingertips, bold and needy like he has rarely been before.

He’s drank before, he’s touched himself before, he’s desired another body before. But he’s never drank Dean’s liquor, from Dean’s cup; never touched his own skin with Dean just a few feet away from him, wearing clothes that smell like him.

He’s never desired someone he wasn’t supposed to have.

The feeling, the need, it crashes into him like an eighteen wheeler, slamming through the fog of his alcohol induced thoughts.

His mouth tastes like all the things he's never tried. Tastes like the bourbon he's never sipped, like all waters he's never jumped in; like Dean's lips, and how the salt of his skin would mix with the liquor, and Castiel can imagine how they'd blend together, sweet and sour and salty, but he's never going to know.

Tonight his mouth feels empty.

He smacks his lips in the darkness, runs his tongue over them, and the touch feels foreign, daring, like it isn't his but someone else's, someone new, someone dangerous. Someone desired.

The slow drag of the rough sheet on his skin feels like too much and not enough at the same time, his body both flushed and cold. There's a tender friction on the inside of his thighs, between his legs. He reaches out a hand, to touch, to tease, maybe just to explore. Finds himself hard and wanting, needing without knowing how or why.

Breath stutters on his lips, then in his lungs. His fingers caress his skin, find it hot, taut and tense, straining.

He turns his head to check that Dean can't see him, that he's asleep and unaware. When his eyes land on him, he wishes he had never taken them off the ceiling.

Dean lies on his back now, sheets pooling at his waist, his bare chest rising and falling slowly with the rhythm of his regular breaths. His eyelashes so long, a shadow on the curve of his cheek, another in the dip above his lip. In his sternum, right under a nipple.  
The sight of him, so innocent and so debauched at the same time, shatters something solid inside Castiel.

He gasps in the darkness and then he holds his breath, wonders if it was audible in the dark, if Dean has suddenly turned, caught him with his cheeks flushed, hand teasing his happy trail, cock tenting the flimsy fabric of his shorts.

The thought is both exhilarating and terrifying. Had the alcohol not been a factor, it’d probably just be terrifying. As it is, he only feels emboldened, lost in the hazy feeling of desire and transgression.

His fingers slide lower and lower, over the small valley of his bellybutton, down between his legs, where he’s hard and wanting.  
He cups himself, and even through the layers, the touch feels incredible. Sweat beads on his forehead, breaths fast and foolish in his lungs.

Fire simmers in his veins, bursts in his chest, the more he looks, the more he wants, the more he burns. There’s a frantic rhythm in his ribcage, and it takes him a second to recognize it as his own frenzied heartbeat. His hand stills between his legs, realization like a bucket of ice on his clammy skin.

Desire is something that happens to other people, a concept simultaneously clear in theory and impossible in practice, at least for him. At least until now.

As he lays there, in the soft darkness of Dean Winchester’s little borrowed cabin, his hand squeezing and teasing himself like he can’t help it, he finally understands what it means to want, so deeply and so strongly it feels almost impossible to resist. He breathes and every breath without giving in feels like a battle reluctantly won.

He thinks of Evan, thinks of his hands and his mouth, his lips on Cas’s skin. How it feels to touch him, to want him. He thinks that it doesn’t feel like this. It’s never felt like this. He’s never wanted to touch Evan more than he has to take his next breath, never felt his lips prickle with the need to taste him.

_But I love him_ , he thinks, because that’s a truth he knows to be true, a raft he can hang on to get through a storm he struggles to understand.

His love for Evan is a carefully threaded cloth, spooled ever so gently through nearly a decade of knowing him. Every day a new thread, a new connection between the two of them, until there were so many Castiel couldn’t count them anymore, until their lives were so tightly intertwined that the only thing that had made sense was to give in, let himself be enveloped by Evan’s arms and make himself a nest there. There’s no urgency, no fire to be found there, only the gentle warmth found in one’s bed, calm and reassuring, familiar.

In the darkness, desire turns sour in his mouth, the touch of his hand now more a violation than a playful caress. He feels foolish, wrong. Wonders what Dean would think of him if he knew what he was about to do. Wonders what Evan would say.  
The thought only burns acid in his mouth, his skin now clammy and cold. He turns his back to Dean’s sleeping form, like facing the moldy wall will be enough to forget who lies mere feet from him.

When sleep comes to him, it’s a thin, ratty thing, barely pushing on his eyelids, ready to lift at the smallest suggestion of a noise.  
It goes on like that for most of the night, being jolted awake, disoriented, just to remind himself of everything that’s been going on and letting his body fall into a restless sleep again.

The fourth time he wakes it’s actually morning, or at least something close to it; the light is barely a suggestion, muted and dull, dusty almost. So soft over the corners of this little room, over the angles of Dean’s face, that Castiel almost fears he’s imagining it all, a space that’s not really there, more dream than it is reality.

The space between the couch and Dean’s bed is enough that he can’t feel his rumbling breaths on his skin, but not enough that he wouldn’t be able to touch him if he stretched an arm out.

He wonders what Dean's skin would feel like under his fingertips, if he would be able to feel the freckles dotting it all over.

It’s hard not to be reminded of the past, as he watches Dean toss and turn under the blanket, the picture familiar and foreign at the same time. It’s like his fingertips remember how Dean’s forehead felt under them, how it felt to peek into his dreams, ensure he had peaceful ones. He wonders, just briefly, what would happen if he did that now. If he reached out through the space between them, lay a hand on Dean’s knotted forehead; if the touch alone would be enough to soothe his troubled sleep.

Dean huffs and shifts, turning to face the wall once more, his face now hidden from Castiel’s stare. He supposes it’s better that way, without the temptation.

It’s at least another hour before Dean wakes up, gives Castiel enough time to go over the plan in his head again; almost enough to convince himself this is a good idea and Dean still knows what he’s doing. Almost, but not quite.

He seems surprised to see Castiel on the other side of the room, like he had forgotten he had asked him to stay over. His hair looks soft where it sticks out messily on his head. He grunts something that sounds like a good morning and stretches, joints popping as he stands up.

He stays bleary-eyed and gruff all through breakfast and the first cup of coffee, his frown only easing up at the smell of the sizzling bacon Garth’s cooking.  
He flips through John’s old diary as he eats, talks with his mouth half full, and something slowly unravels in Castiel’s chest; the cold grip of doubt giving way to a tentative warmth that smells like a hundred and one motels across the country, like the worn leather of the Impala, like gunpowder on Dean’s long fingers.

It’s a carbon copy of the past, the lines all the same and yet different. He tries not to dwell much on Sam’s absence, or his powers, to enjoy the moment for what it is instead.

They decide to restock their supplies during the day and Castiel has to leave for a few hours to deal with wedding plans that don’t even seem to belong to the same pane of reality as Dean and the hunt.

When Evan calls him at lunch, his voice is the same as it’s always been, so sure and unwavering. Castiel lets himself be lulled by it, closes his eyes and listens to him rant about a meeting or two, and in the light of the day he can almost pretend last night never happened.

Evan never asks him what’s wrong, and Castiel can pretend nothing is. It’s easy like that.

When they finally say goodbye, Castiel considers for a second telling him about the hunt. Telling Evan about his past and the things that lurk in the dark, about the men who fight those things.  
It lasts the length of a hurried goodbye hushed through the phone, and then it’s gone. Certain things are better left buried.

The rest of the day goes fast and gray, pretending his biggest worry is the wedding and not really being able to fool himself. By the time he joins Dean back at the cabin, he’s nearly vibrating out of his skin.

He can only hope his faith in Dean will be enough to carry them all through this.

\---

The actual hunt starts off all right. They all feel as prepared as they can be; and there’s something to be said for the reassuring familiarity in their movements, the tight set of Dean’s jaw as he finds his weapon, the straight lines of his back as he readies to barge in.

The graveyard is dark and quiet, and Castiel would even call it peaceful if he didn’t know there were monsters crawling underneath, stealing bodies from their final resting place.  
It’s warm and damp outside, sky heavy like there’s a storm brewing in hits depths.

They need to infiltrate the crypt without being detected; if Garth’s info was correct, there are about five or six ghouls making camp in the cemetery. Castiel knows the surprise element has to be their biggest ally.

“You ready?” Dean asks him as they climb down the truck, Garth’s nervous frame waiting for them by his own vehicle; an old thing that somehow manages to be even more rusty and creaky than Dean’s.

Dean's eyes are wide and green even in the pale moonlight, and Castiel finds his mouth to be a little dry when he answers.

“Yes, I’m good.”

Their feet are quiet on the damp grass, their shadows dark between the headstones as they dart quickly and unseen to the crypt where Garth had first seen the remains. There’s a heavy chain now blocking access, and Castiel is about to offer to grab the pliers from the car when Dean wordlessly steps in front of him.

It seems like Dean’s ability to pick a lock hasn’t changed in the past ten years, and the chain gives out easily under his hands. Dean ducks his head a little, and there’s a tiny pleased smile on the curve of his lips.

The heavy door of the crypt creaks and moans as they push it open, a cloud of dust settling at their feet, and Castiel has to fight a little proud smile of his own.

“Still got it,” he hears Dean murmur as they step in, and he can’t help but agree.

The crypt itself is nothing special; it’s dusty as all forgotten places tend to be, but doesn’t look menacing in any relevant ways. The names on the walls are barely legible, but Castiel spares a thought for them, wonders for a moment if there’s still someone who remembers who they were when they were alive. He gets so distracted, he almost runs into Garth where he stands still in front of a small gate. He follows his line of sight until he sees the drag marks on the pavement, right by the dark staircase leading down. There’s a shiver that runs down the nape of his neck, but he pretends it’s the chill.

“No way outta this but through,” Dean says, and he seems to say it for his own benefit too, tiny fissures of uncertainty cracking the veneer of his bravado.

The gate creaks as they open it; then they walk down the steps slowly, careful not to make too much noise and be discovered before they’re ready. The staircase ends, and in front of them there’s a hallway of sorts, darkness and death seeping through the walls, making the air so thick it’s almost impossible to see through it.

It’s immediately clear that their blueprints were wrong, the crypt merging into warped paths like veins, twisting in every direction.

“We need to split up,” one of them says, a low whisper in the dark; Castiel isn’t sure who, and it doesn’t matter because it’s the truth and they all know it. There’s an audible click in Dean’s throat as he swallows, and Castiel aches to reach out and curl his hands around his bony wrist, just for a moment.

He doesn’t have the time to think about it much, Garth’s voice cutting through the fog.

“I’ll take left, you guys take the main hallway, stick together.” His words are a sharp murmur in the silence.

Dean looks like he wants to argue, and Cas guesses they’d be more efficient if they each took a separate way, but he simply can’t bare to be on his own, not when he could be at Dean’s side instead.

Garth nods and doesn’t waste a second before scurrying off. Castiel turns to his right and then hesitates, turns to look at Dean, but Dean is already walking away, shoulders set, bow legs swaggering forwards. Castiel hurries after him.

They walk for what feels like hours, the chill of being underground unforgiving on their skin.

The only source of light comes from tiny holes in the ceiling, letting in just enough moonlight to see where their feet are going. Just enough that when a shadow moves on the wall next to him, Castiel knows it means trouble.

He grips the handle of his machete with his right hand, his left jerking out to grab at Dean’s arm in front of him. The slap of skin on leather is loud in the stillness of the night.

Dean turns, eyes questioning, his whole body a bowstring about to snap. Castiel points at the blurry movement on their side and can feel the shift in Dean’s body as he figures it out.

When thinking about this moment, months, years later, Castiel will remember it as ‘the moment everything fell apart’. In hindsight, he should have known. Successful missions always rely on trained staff and clear plans, and they don’t really have either right now. He wonders what the angels in his garrison would think of him if they saw how far their leader had fallen.

It all happens so fast that it almost seems to pass in slow motion. They turn to an opening in the wall and are faced with a feral smile, painted dark on a face that promises nothing but pain.

Dean’s arm with the machete is fast, but the ghoul is faster. Dean swings, his arm thrown out in front of Castiel, and the ghoul jumps from his little opening in the wall. He laughs a cavernous laugh that doesn’t seem to belong to the old man whose skin he’s wearing, as he strikes Dean across the chest.

Dean stumbles backwards, his boots dragging dust and dirt with them, and Castiel is finally shocked into action.

He lunges towards the ghoul, a growl ripping from his chest, adrenaline propelling him forward with a surety he doesn’t actually feel. His momentum is halted suddenly when something solid comes crashing down on the back of his head.

“Cas!” Dean shouts, and it sounds further away than it should. Vision swimming and knees buckling, Castiel turns. What he sees makes his legs weaker and the heartbeat faster in his chest. Holes, dozens of them, where before it was only headstones and names, long forgotten remains, now stand too many people – ghouls – he reminds himself, and the sight pitches darkness right in his lungs.

“Dean, you have to run!” he screams, voice hoarse and broken at the end, not knowing if Dean is even close enough to hear him anymore.

The bodies are advancing on him, a slow, predatory crawl that makes Castiel feel like his only option is to run as fast as he can and never look back. Only there’s nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

Someone on his left starts to laugh. Castiel swings blindly around him, manages to hit a shoulder, and the crack of bone is loud in the tunnel.

“You should have thought twice before coming to disturb our peace,” a voice whispers right in his ear, before he’s hit again, this time right in the ribs, and there’s little he can do but blindly swing back and hope he’s hitting someone.

He stumbles backwards, burrowing into the damp wall, crouching to protect a body that feels all but too fragile at this point. Hits rain on him like thunder, and he’s so painfully aware of his arrogance, thinking he’d ever be good enough for this.

Ghouls keep piling on him and if he’s not killed by a hit, he’s gonna die suffocated under all their rotting bodies. Every breath he takes rattles painfully into his lungs, like there cannot possibly be enough air in this crypt to keep him alive.

He fights, blade slicing to whatever flesh it can find, fists hitting and pushing, but it’s not enough. He wonders if Dean is as overpowered as he is, and the thought makes him feel colder and more alone.

His mortality dangles in front of his eyes, a cruel joke now, mocking him for letting himself fall so low, for losing so much.

Death’s going to find him in a musty tunnel, his body stolen by these creatures, his flesh consumed, his whole existence meaningless.

There’s a moment when he looks up and he can almost see the moonlight pouring from above, a moment when the air is almost silent, and he wonders if that’s it, if that’s how it ends. In the quiet of the night.

Then suddenly there’s an ugly sound echoing through the walls, and it takes Castiel a second to realize it came from him. The sharp, searing pain in his right shoulder takes him almost by surprise, steals whatever little breath he had left in his lungs, coils around his heart and squeezes it so tight he blacks out for a moment.

His throat is hoarse when he shouts and drags his body backwards, a primitive instinct making him feel blindly around the wall for something to burrow into.

He pushes and shutters until finally the wall behind him gives way to a small crevice, a hole for him to shelter his body with.

The ghouls are still on him, mocking his pathetic attempt at an escape, and he doesn’t know if he has found safety or if he’s simply chosen his grave site.

If he’d had the time to stop and think about it, he would have probably realized it was the latter. But adrenaline pumps through his veins, kickstarts his body back into action with a vehemence he wasn’t expecting. The creatures try to get to him, long nails and rotten breath, grabbing and tearing whatever they can find, but he remains hidden, keeps fighting.

He doesn’t know how long, time passes both too quickly and not quickly enough as he clings to his life like a frayed rope, threads slipping through his fingers as he tries desperately to hold on.

Suddenly there’s a break in the onslaught. Hits come slower and further apart. There’s a shuffling of bodies, like the ghouls are moving, and they’re moving away from him. He wonders if they have given up, decided he’s not worth it, that it’s easier to just seal him where he is and let him rot. The thought has him scrambling for air again, pushing himself up and outward towards the opening.

The scuffle grows in intensity, the sounds sharp and echoing in his ears. Then comes the silence. He stills, in his safe little grave, and waits, heartbeat quiet, terrified.

When Garth’s face peeks through the opening, it’s like the doors to Heaven itself have just opened in front of him.

“Castiel?” he asks, squinting into the darkness. “Are you okay? We gotta get out of here, fast. Where’s Dean?” He says it all so fast, one hand wiping the splatters of blood on his face, the other clutched around Cas’s wrist to help him up again. Castiel’s never been more glad to see his skinny face.

He clutches at his offered hand with all the strength he has, a sharp jolt of pain blazing through the nerves in his arm as he does so.

He gasps and stumbles, crashing into Garth and almost sending them both sprawling to the floor. Garth steadies him and pushes him back into the long darkened hallway, his hands steady and gentle on Castiel's limp arm.

“It’s your shoulder, it’s dislocated,” Garth tells him once they have walked all the way back up to the crypt. They’re not safe, not yet, the distance between them and the ghouls crawling underneath feeling too thin, negligible.

He winces as Garth pulls the jacket from his injured shoulder. “I can pop it back in if you want. Or we can drive to a hospital.”

Castiel thinks about checking himself in at the emergency room, getting bills and questions and having to explain it all to Evan.

“Pop it back in,” he hears himself say. Garth doesn’t waste time, hands steady on his skin. There’s a burst of white hot pain shooting from his shoulder right into his chest, his fingertips. He almost blacks out for a second and there’s a scream in his lungs that never gets released. He only opens his eyes again once he’s sure he’s not about to pass out, and breathes through the pain.

The understanding and compassionate look in Garth’s eyes is doing nothing for his pain, and he can’t even find it in himself to appreciate it.  
He just hangs on, slung over Garth’s shoulder like a broken puppet, waiting for his breath to come back to his lungs.

He still blinking through the pain when there’s the sudden hurried pounding he’s come to associate with a frantic run.  
He starts hoping but doesn’t quite dare to.

Dean looks crazed when he enters the crypt again, hair mussed and matted, sweat and blood clotting the blonde strands together. There’s panic running through the lines of his body, in the trembling hands he raises towards Cas, like he wants to touch but isn’t sure if he’s allowed.

“Winchester. You are one tough son of a bitch,” Garth explodes, a smile that’s too boyish and too cheery for the situation. “He’s got a busted shoulder; you help ‘im up the stairs, and I’ll bring the truck around.” And just like that, he’s gone in a flurry of dirty clothes.

They’re alone.

Dean is still standing on the other side of the crypt, chest heaving, eyes wide and wild with adrenaline and fear.  
“Thought I’d lost you there, bud,” he rasps, words shaky as they tumble down his lips. There’s a smile there, a desperate uptick of the mouth that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Something inside Castiel’s chest cracks open at the sight. His heart breaks, shatters. But then there's light through the cracks, fissures of brightness. Like the roof of an old grey cathedral caving in and letting the pale spring sun warm up its insides for the first time in centuries.

“Dean,” he gasps. He stumbles and clutches uselessly at the dirty wall of the corner he has shoved his mangled body in, as he tries to get himself to just stand up again.

Suddenly there are hands on his forearms, pulling him upright, Dean using his own body to hold his weight. What a picture they must make, the both of them a little too mangled and torn, bloodied and shaking.

“Cas- Cas, I thought- Fuck,” Dean stammers, and his hands are still on Castiel’s arms, his grip bruisingly tight.

Castiel never knows what Dean thought; he barely has the time to suck in a breath before he feels the warm and solid weight of Dean’s arms wrapping around him, so tight his shoulder pinches in pain, so tight all the air gets squeezed out of his chest.  
But it doesn’t matter, any of it, because Dean is suddenly all around him, his smell in his nostrils and his stubble scratching right under his jaw, painful and raw and _alive_.  
There isn’t much else for Castiel to do but hold on, fingers clenched around Dean’s waist, stunned breaths puffing against the skin of Dean’s neck, eyes prickling with tears he didn’t even know were there.

It’s surprisingly easy, to stand like that, just shy out of danger, feeling stupidly safe in Dean’s rough embrace, even when he knows he’s anything but.

“Don’t you do that again, Cas- Fuck-” Dean mumbles, and maybe he takes a step back, because suddenly there’s a fraction of space between their faces, Dean’s forehead sliding warm over his, so close that he can feel his words hot on his own lips.  
If there’s a survival instinct that tells his body to flee, Castiel must have lost it somewhere in the crypt, because there’s nothing that could drag him away from Dean right now.

“Dean- I-” he says, and he doesn’t know where he’s going with it, but, as it turns out, it doesn’t even matter. Because suddenly Dean is moving again, slow and wide eyed, nose bumping into Cas's in the most gentle drag, his face inching closer and closer, until finally he lunges, sealing the space between them, and then all Castiel feels is the off-center press of Dean’s mouth on his.

It’s a quick, too-strong, almost feral press, one that sends him slamming back into the wall with a smack that makes his bones rattle in their frame.

It takes him a moment to respond, to shake off the shock of being kissed, of Dean actually reaching out through all the bullshit they’ve been piling up between the two of them and pulling him in, crashing their bodies together like it’s the most normal thing to do.

Dean tastes coppery, like fear, like the blood gushing from the cut on his eyebrow, and Castiel flinches at the taste. Dean keeps kissing him, hands tangling in his coat, in his hair, gripping the back of his shirt so tight the fabric will probably bear the print of his bloodied palms.

Dean kisses him deeper and slower, and somehow the urgency doesn’t disappear once they’re both sure they’re solid and alive.

It’s then that Cas finds his strength again and uses it all to surge against Dean, a mess of tangled limbs that don’t really know where to go and what to do, except that they need to be closer, pressed together tight, lines melting with each other until they can’t really tell where the boundaries of their bodies lay anymore.

It’s not a romantic kiss, or a gentle one; it’s rushed and messy, and it’s like Dean’s fingers have found the thread of Cas’s soul, his body. Like he’s pulling and pulling, Cas’s stitches unraveling under his touch, the very essence of him pooling tired at their feet. Until Cas is nothing but a shapeless bundle of yearning.

Their lips slide together, swollen and tacky, and Castiel abandons himself to it fully, body bending under the weight of Dean’s own, a bow of two that’s half struggle, half dance.

And at once his body is alight with thunder and thumming with live electricity under Dean’s rough touch. There’s a hurricane in his fingers, a storm brewing in his chest, cold, whipping winds in the breaths he leaves on Castiel’s lips. Dangerous and utterly mesmerizing, Castiel is lost to the beauty of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....TOLD YOU IT WAS A BIG CHAPTER!😂  
> I am actually a nervous wreck about posting this chapter; first off because of what happens at end, but also because it shows a different side of the Cas we have seen up to now in this story and I really want it all to feel coherent with his actions so far.  
> But yeah, the boys are finally dealing with their bullshit.. or are they??? There's still *a lot* for them to go through, so don't relax just yet ;)
> 
> If there ever was a time to leave a comment and let me know what you're thinking of this story, THIS IS IT; I really really hope you guys were satisfied with the chapter, and even if you weren't, I'd love to hear from you!  
> I will be here, crossing my fingers and my toes and hoping you liked it 💙
> 
> If you wanna scream at me, here's [my tumblr](https://flurryflair.tumblr.com/)


	8. The predetermined path - Dean POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guyyyyyssss! Okay, I won't take too long to introduce this cause I know you have been waiting for it after the cliffhanger last week. I just wanna say how grateful I am for everyone's support after the last chapter, and how excited/nervous I am to finally share this with everyone! I really really hope it won't disappoint.
> 
> In this chapter we got another big milestone for the boys, lotsa action, very little talking (are you even surprised), the mess is getting messier than ever ;)
> 
> Also, this is definitely rated E now, so proceed with caution (or not!)
> 
> Many thanks to my betas, [eyesofatragedy ](https://eyesofatragedy67.tumblr.com/) and [ tipofmemory ](https://tipofmemory.tumblr.com/) for all their help!
> 
> (SLIGHTLY SPOILERY P.S.:.  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> .
> 
> This chapter's draft title was "The Fuckening", just so you know!) 😏

They should talk about it, but they don’t. Dean knows if he starts pulling up all the reasons why they shouldn’t be doing any of this, he’ll never be able to stop. The truth is that he wants this, deep in the dusty dark corner of his soul, the shady bits he tries so hard not to look at much. He wants it bad, and trying to deny it is consuming more energy than it takes to just finally give in.

So he stays silent throughout the walk across the cemetery and back to their cars. Doesn’t look at Garth and his questioning stare, doesn’t look at Cas, even as he feels the blue of his eyes trying to pierce through his skull as they limp all the way back.

“I’ll call Sam first thing in the morning,” he says instead “see if he can come give us a hand, drive these fuckers out for good” and Garth nods, then bites his lip, like he’s about to say something and he’s not sure if he should.

Dean makes the choice for him.

“It’s gonna be fine, man,” he says, because a failed hunt is what you get when you put together an ex-angel with no gunman skills and a forty-year-old fuck who hasn’t hunted anything in over ten years and has gone soft in the middle. It’s a half miracle they all got out with the skin on their backs still intact, if he has to be honest.

Calling Sam is both an easy way out and the perfect occasion for him to see his brother again in the flesh. Dean’s not a smart man, but even he can see it’s not a chance he should let go of.

There’s still a grain of suspicion in Garth’s eyes when he nods and turns to his beat up truck.

“Be safe, Winchester,” he cautions Dean, in a half-whisper that’s not sneaky at all and makes him roll his eyes.

“Go home, Garth,” he tells him, nodding towards the car, and Garth obeys.

It’s different then, when it’s just the two of them left, clothes askew and hair mussed up, both of them knowing it’s not just from the fight.

Cas doesn’t say anything, his body a silent and sturdy column as he stares at the muddy ground like its puddles hold the weight of all the answers he seeks.

It feels like it would be rude to interrupt his moment, so Dean lets him be for a second, once he’s sure he’s well propped against the side of the truck and he’s not gonna collapse anytime soon. He busies himself with tucking the weapons back into the bed of the truck, and it feels good to be cleaning something up, to be putting some order in what looks like a mess of a life.

Cas looks at him again when he gets close, eyes so blue and so naked that Dean feels unworthy to even stand in front of them, bloodied and beaten as he is.

He searches Cas’s face for a clue, any clue that what happened between them is okay, that he hasn’t managed to kill this newfound small, fragile thing that they’ve been building between the two of them.

He doesn’t find it in Cas’s eyes, not in the knotted skin between his eyebrows, not in the bruised hill of his cheekbone. He finds it in the bow of his lips, or so he thinks. Cas’s mouth is parted and plush, his lips chapped and kiss-bruised and when Cas’s tongue comes out of the confines of his teeth to wet them gently, that’s when Dean can’t resist any longer. That’s when he tells himself that they both want this, whatever this is, and it can’t be wrong, not when it feels so inevitable.

Kissing Castiel again, a hand cupped around his rough cheek, his back pressed against the rain-cold truck, it feels like fate. Feels like Dean is just being strung along a predetermined path - one where every branch, every road, they all bring him back right here, between Cas’s legs; smelling like blood and lust and fear, and kissing it away from each other’s lips, until all that’s left is the unique flavor of their tongues together.

There’s no earth-shattering moment, there’s no fireworks. There’s just the slow drag of Cas’s tongue on his, the slight burn of their stubble rubbing against each other, and Dean struggles to find anything in his life that has felt more right than everything does in this very moment.

He would be content like this, he thinks, kissing this man slow and deep, until their feet sink in the mud, until the soil reclaims their bodies, and they’d still be together, intertwined.

“Come with me,” Cas says eventually, taking his lips back for a moment, and Dean wants to whine at the loss, but he doesn’t.

“The hotel,” Cas says, a smooth thumb dragging slow over Dean’s lips, a pale imitation of Cas’s own mouth.

There’s nothing for Dean to say, nothing for him to do but nod, as he launches himself into the truck. Wrenching his body away from Cas’s warmth as fast as he can because he knows that every moment they spend in the open, like this, is a moment either of them could stop and realize they don’t really want to go there after all.

Cas’s door has barely been shut when Dean puts the truck in reverse and peels out of the cemetery, headed for that damned fancy hotel Cas is staying at.

The ride is short and tension-filled. Dean kinda wants music but feels like it’d interrupt the buzzing in his ears, and he can’t have that. Not when that’s everything that’s keeping him from stopping the vehicle and realizing this whole thing makes no sense.

When they reach the hotel, the tension is so high Dean feels it like an electric blanket all over his skin. It’s a sheen of buzzing sweat between the cotton of his shirt and his own clammy skin.  
He can’t stop wringing his hands, brushing his palms over the fabric of his shirt just to feel the texture of it, just so he can be occupied enough that he won’t reach for Cas’s smooth skin instead.

He knows they pass the lobby and the stairs, can see them blurring at the edges of his vision, and still all he can see is Cas, follows him like a lost kid at a grocery store.

It’s Cas, in the end, who starts things again. Doesn’t ask for permission, doesn’t seek confirmation. He simply pushes Dean against the smooth wood of his bedroom door as soon as it’s shut, needy fingers fisting in his hair, hungry lips prying his own for more and more and more.

And Dean knows he’s empty, knows he’s got fuck all to give, other than hopes crushed like beer cans, and a hard dick good enough for a fuck, maybe two.

But Cas doesn’t seem to know that, or maybe he does and he doesn’t care, because he seems to want Dean anyway, and the measly offerings he brings within him.

The way Cas kisses him is unreal. Hungry and deep, hands clutching his clothes, his skin, deep into his soul. Like Cas’s fingers are so long they’re reaching right inside Dean’s muddy soul, getting entangled with it, until they’re both tainted and there isn’t much they can do about it.

Dean feels cleaner with every lingering touch that Cas leaves on his skin, lighter. Like he’s being purified from the inside out; an act of sin bringing forth a redemption he doesn’t deserve.

He drinks it all down like the thirsty desperate whore he is, pushes his hips into Cas’s whenever they get close enough, pulls his tongue into his mouth like he can never get tired of the taste of him.

Cas lets him do it all, an unrelenting force, safe and solid and giving just as good as he gets. Like Dean can hit him with all he has and he won’t budge, won’t leave, won’t crumble against the onslaught. Dean wants to slither all over him, use the grooves of his muscles like ledges to climb his body, twine himself around the sturdy column of him and never let him go.

The urge is as exhilarating as it is surprising, and Dean’s too deep into this to go back now; so he charges forward over and over, lets himself claim all the beautiful things that aren’t his.

They end up on the bed and Dean’s missing a shoe, and he’s not quite sure how the whole thing even happened. There’s a whooshing sound, and it takes Dean a second to realize it came from his own body hitting the soft mattress. When he opens his eyes he finds Castiel above him, cheeks flushed and hair a mess, lips parted and pink, _so pink_ , bearing the marks of Dean’s stubble like a proud claim.

The sight punches the breath out of his lungs, the room suddenly a vacuum, white noise in his ears as everything dulls and sharpens, leaving the image of this man above him like it’s the only thing that exists, the only thing that matters.

He craves him like the dusty soil craves the rain; feels dry and empty and parched, so thirsty, so needy for just one taste of him.

Someone whimpers and it’s pathetic, and Dean almost can’t believe it’s him.

Castiel shushes him, and then is on him again, a blanket of warmth and weight, solid and sure. He pushes through his legs, makes space for himself between the valley of Dean’s splayed legs. His hands gripping his thighs bruisingly hard as he carves himself a room right there, in Dean’s body. Dean doesn’t mind; he knows, with unwavering certainty, that he’ll give Castiel whatever he asks for.

He’s not sure who takes care of peeling their clothes off their bodies, but soon they’re skin to skin, a whirlwind of fabric and stolen breaths between rough kisses that miss the mark of his lips more times than they find it.

Dean doesn’t care; takes whatever he can get whenever he can get it. He’s always been a scrappy guy, he can make do.

Cas kisses him long, deep, his injured arm cradled to his naked chest like a bird’s wing; his knees sinking on the mattress as he lays himself completely on top of Dean, his movements a messy game of shoving and pulling, until they’ve carved themselves enough space on the mattress.

He’s hard and hot against Dean’s own dick, and fuck if the sticky friction doesn’t send his brain into overdirve, arousal thumming thick in his veins, tinged with an aura of amazement he probably hasn’t experienced since he was a teenager.

There are little throaty moans pushing their way out of Cas’s lips as his hips shove into Dean’s, relentless and frantic, hard and demanding. Everything is too much and not enough at the same time, the rut of their cocks together both too intense and not quite right.

When Cas’s moans turn into whimpers of frustration, Dean feels it right in his own mouth, can almost taste the desperation, the desire, sour and sweet on Cas’s tongue. He pushes him off just long enough to spit in his own hand, dirty and fast, his digits sneaking between their bodies, wrapping around them both, adding slickness to the sweat of the alcove of their hips pressed together.

The grunt that punches out of Cas’s chest then is as close to a heavenly choir as Dean’s ever heard. It’s like he’s opened the floodgates and there’s no going back, no rushing the water back in; there’s only surrendering to the unrelenting force that is Cas’s body.

Dean lets himself be submerged, body and soul, leaves his regrets dry on the shore. There’s no air, his lungs straining as he’s caught under the current; but it’s okay because Cas’s mouth is on his always, never straying away, never wavering, sharing the same stolen breaths, the same little wisps of air, just enough to get by, just enough that their mouths don’t have to separate for long.  
It’s maddening and wonderful, and Dean never wants it to end.

There’s something basic and primordial in the way their hips slide together, sweat and spit and precum slicking the way, like neither of them could be bothered with more in their haste to just fall into each other's body. Faster and rougher than anything Dean’s ever done before. Urgency rasps its way through Dean’s throat, into his lungs, his groin, until all he can feel is the burning press of Cas’s cock against his, the heady taste of him in his mouth and his nostrils.

He comes first, orgasm rising through him so fast he barely has time to realize what’s happening before it’s slamming through him, blood beating into his skull so loud he can barely hear himself shout as he comes.

Then it’s a flurry of spit-slick kisses; wet and open-mouthed, raining on the flushed skin of his throat, his cheeks, his eyelids, as Cas’s movements grow even more frantic and desperate, his fingers digging into Dean’s skin painfully. Dean lets himself float, lets the heady feeling of endorphins coursing through his body take over, his muscles liquid in Cas’s strong hands. The slick sound of Cas’s hips pistoning through the mess between their bodies is obscene and erotic and Dean is drunk on him, on the sounds he makes, the way he moves, the way he growls Dean’s name right into his skin as he comes, his whole body shuddering and trembling, clutching at Dean’s skin like he never wants to let him go. Sewing his moans right into Dean’s skin, like he’ll always be marked, always know who he truly belongs to - who his skin sings for, longs for, in the quiet of the dark of his moments alone.

There’s a moment of stillness, silence foggy and tense, before Cas’s body collapses in a heap on top of him. He falls hard, like a puppet with his strings cut off, limbs askew and heavy where they lay. He’s heavy and sticky, and Dean can't quite breathe, but he doesn’t feel like he’s fully back in his body just yet. He just lays there, allows them both a moment to catch their breath, to get their heartbeats back under control.

When he turns his head he catches his own gaze in the mirror at the side of the bed, and what a sight to see they are. He feels himself blush all the way to his chest as he looks at the picture the mirror is giving him. Dean Winchester, hunter extraordinaire, laying half naked under another man, covered in sweat, cum, and blood. Turns out, in their haste, they hadn’t been able to actually discard all of their clothes. Dean’s shirt lays open under him, one sleeve still caught on his arm. Cas ain’t doing much better either, his jeans caught messily on his ankle, his socks still half on.

A laugh rumbles slow through him, as the insanity of the past few hours finally catches up with him. He laughs so hard Cas’s body shakes above his own, so hard he actually cries a little, the salt of his tears painful on his raw cheeks.

Cas doesn’t understand or appreciate his sudden burst of hilarity; he merely raises his head, his gaze cloudy and confused as he glares at Dean. He’s not very convincing, hair half plastered to his forehead, eyes that look too big and too lost all of a sudden. All the domineering energy of a minute ago is suddenly gone; Castiel looks like a lost child, like he’s walked too far from his mom and can’t find his way back. Dean feels tender for him. He kisses him again then, softly, because he can, because he wants to.

“You need a shower,” he whispers into Cas’s prickly cheek once they part, arms untangling from the cage of Cas’s limbs to push at him, heave him upright again.

Cas doesn’t look much better once he’s standing up, cooling cum on his stomach, bruises and cuts peppering his tan skin, dick soft and clothes caught on his limbs.

He stands there a second too long, looking lost, not making any effort to actually get his clothes off or move towards the bathroom.

There’s nothing for Dean to do but cradle him in his arms, shuffle him into the shower, his hand gently peeling the fabric from his sweaty skin. He lets Cas lean on him, holds up his weight when Cas’s steps falter a little, his body suddenly clumsy and unsure.

Dean holds him up, relishing the feeling of their skin together, and he can’t help but let himself look, just a little. Because the way the soft bathroom light is pooling over Cas’s skin makes him look a little like he crawled right out of a painting, bold, yellow strokes of light over his chest, deep dark shadows on his hipbones. There’s so much Dean has never let himself look at, and it feels a little like a revelation.

When Cas turns around to step under the big jet, that’s when Dean catches sight of something he wasn’t expecting.

At first his overtired brain thinks it’s a bruise, a giant, deep black bruise, spanning the entirety of Cas’s back, from his tailbone right up to his neck.

It takes him a moment to take it all in, to figure out that it’s not a bruise, it’s a tattoo, a picture so big and yet so intricate that Dean cannot begin to unravel its meaning.

It looks both jarring and perfectly placed on Cas’s body,naked and bruised and with a story inked on his skin. Dean has so many questions he wants to ask, so many moments he needs explained to fill the void between the Castiel he used to know, so long ago, and the Castiel he’s getting to know now.

The bathroom is filling with steam, and the jets look so warm and inviting, but Cas looks like he can barely hold himself up on his two legs. So Dean doesn’t ask, tells himself that certain things are not for him to know, and steps inside the shower.

The feeling of the warm water battering on their bodies is heavenly, and it’s easy to get lost in it. Easy to cradle Cas’s head when it lulls on his shoulders, like Cas is suddenly a million years old and can’t possibly hold up his own weight anymore. His fingers are gentle when they swipe through Cas’s messy hair, soap suds making everything slick and sweet-smelling.

“I can do it,” Cas murmurs at some point, his good arm swatting away Dean’s hand halfheartedly.

Dean merely scoffs and keeps lathering his body with soap, relishing the way his fingers slide on solid muscle, taut and firm skin.

There’s privilege in being able to witness Cas like this, in this total sort of abandonment, body naked and gaze unguarded. Dean is grateful.

There’s nothing sexual in the way their bodies sway together under the spray, close and tangled together in a sort of half-embrace that feels like lazy intimacy and fills a hole in Dean’s chest he never knew needed filling.

He lets himself trail his hands over Cas’s skin, gentle over his bruises, until they’re both clean again and Cas doesn’t look like he’s gonna fall over as soon as he steps out of Dean’s hold.

They wrap themselves in the thick fluffy robes of the hotel, and Dean has to admit to himself that fancy things are sometimes very nice. Especially when wrapped around six feet of disheveled, sleepy Cas.

Bare feet sticking to the floor, they shuffle to the bed, and Cas falls face first in it, shamelessly crawling around until he’s under the covers. His hair is a halo around his head as he lays, eyes heavy as he looks at Dean like he wants nothing more than wrap himself around him and not let go for a hundred years.

Dean knows that once Cas asks him to stay, he won’t be able to leave, won’t be able to detach himself from the nest they’ve made for themselves. But there’s still a nagging pressure at the back of his head, a rasping incessant feeling that _no_ , he shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be doing this. That the longer he lets himself indulge, the harder it will be to untangle himself from it and leave it behind.

So before Cas can actually open his mouth and ask him to stay, Dean tells him he’s heading out. He doesn’t look him in the eyes when he says it, but Cas’s confused silence is answer enough, it rings in his ears and it resonates with the quiet resignation that Dean would expect from him.

“Okay,” Cas says eventually, softly, timidly, in a voice so small and so hoarse that it feels like it doesn’t belong to the same man who threw Dean on his bed like he belonged to him.

Dean can’t stand it, the urge to fix it now stronger than any urge to run away.

“Just need some painkillers for your shoulder. Bitch’s gonna hurt soon,” he adds unhelpfully, and Cas still looks at him like he’s about to bolt at a moment’s notice.

“I’ll -uh, I’ll be back,” he adds then, unable to help himself, gaze falling back down to the plush carpet, anything that’s not Cas and his expectant eyes. He’s not even sure he believes it himself, but he says it nonetheless, and Cas’s eyes lose their worried edge.

He dresses fast in a pair of Cas’s sweatpants and a hoodie, pretending not to feel his gaze on him the whole time.

“See you soon, Dean,” Cas whispers at his retreating back as he leaves.

When the door shuts behind him, he doesn’t look back.

Soon he’s sitting in his truck, the air damp and quiet around him.

This is his chance to bail, Dean knows. This is when he realizes this whole thing was a fucked up mistake from beginning to end and he should sit his ass in the car and drive straight back to Kansas, beg for Lisa’s forgiveness and be the man everyone expects him to be. He could call Sam and he’d deal with the ghouls, and Garth would understand if Dean never went back to the cabin. That’d be the smart thing to do, the right one.

Then he thinks about Cas’s lips on his, how soft and warm they were, thinks of the way Cas’s eyes looked so deep and so blue, and he wishes he were a better man.

He pictures Cas, tired and crumpled in his fluffy bathrobe, injured arm cradled against his chest, against the skin Dean himself has just washed with caring fingers, waiting for Dean to come back to him and make it all better again.

He starts the car and drives in a random direction, still unsure about which decision he’s actually going to make.

It’s a random 24-hour CVS he ends up stopping at, looking deserted and quiet; figures he might as well get the painkillers and then decide what to do next.

The drive to the pharmacy is nowhere near enough to calm his frayed nerves, and he feels all the stress of the previous day weighing on his brain and his body like never before. The lights inside the CVS are harsh and stabbing in his eyes, and being out of Cas’s room, out of his bubble, back in the real world, feels almost surreal now. He almost wonders if it’s visible on his skin - his sin, his betrayal - if it’s now painted all over his face, how he left his wife and kids back in Kansas to get fucked into the mattress by a man he hasn’t seen in ten years.

The more he thinks, the more his head aches, and he feels every second of his forty-some years weighing on his shoulders. He wanders the deserted aisles, finds painkillers and a soft sling for Cas, and then adds a bag of gummy bears for himself because he’s craving some sugar. He’s walking to the cash register, because he’s got everything he needs now and he should leave, but somehow his feet take him to the condom display in the corner.

He stands there way longer than socially appropriate, gummy bears now sweating in his hands as he considers if he actually is gonna go through with this. It’s only when an employee breezes by and asks him if he needs help that he grabs the first box of condoms he sees and a bottle of lube. There’s definitely a flustered blush on his face as he checks out, and he tries not to think about why he’s doing all this or what the consequences will be. He’ll just throw everything in his duffle and nobody ever has to even know about them.

When he gets in the car this time, he only briefly considers driving to Garth’s place, before he stops lying to himself and sets off towards Cas’s hotel. He’ll just give him the painkillers and the sling, and then he can leave; that’s what a good friend would do. And Dean’s nothing but loyal.

He can always just keep the condoms and lube in the car, take them back home, or just throw them away before he gets another chance to use them. It’ll be fine and everything will go back to normal.

Except that it’s not, and it doesn’t. Because when Dean and his good intentions walk back into the hotel room, Cas is laying sprawled on the bed, arm still cradled on his chest, bathrobe messy and half open, his chest smooth and solid and rising and falling slow in the blue darkness.

He opens his eyes when Dean gets close, takes the meds from his hands and swallows them down without question. Then he lays back on the pillow, his eyelids heavy, head tilted in a question Dean knows he won’t ask out loud.

 _Stay_ , his eyes say.

Cas’s stare is so heavy Dean feels rooted to the spot, like a hurricane could come by and he would still be standing there, pulled into Cas’s orbit, unable to walk away.

So he shrugs his jacket off and crawls under the covers, his skin following Cas’s heat like it’s the most natural thing. Cas sighs softly, and it sounds like contentment.

When their hands brush on the pillow, Dean lets them. And later, when Cas turns to lie on his side, his face so close to his, Dean scoots even closer, his arm falling heavy around Cas’s middle.

He doesn’t let himself regret it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeeeeeeaaaah, they did that. I'm honestly not sure how everybody is going to take this because after all the fretting, maybe you guys were expecting them to take things slow? But nopes, they both went all in with it and now things are even more complicated.  
> I really really hope you enjoyed this chapter, especially because from now on, there will be a bunch of sex scenes, seems like the boys prefer doing that, rather than actually talking to each other about important things.
> 
> I know things seem good (ish?) now, but don't relax just yet, this is an angsty, pining, fic after all, so there's gonna be a LOT of that coming your way through the rest of the story!
> 
> Finally, THANK YOU, so much for all your comments on the last chapter!!!! I feel like it's important for you to know that they had an actual impact on me; I got so pumped about everyone's reactions that on that same night I was finally able to tackle a whole chapter that had been giving me nightmares for literal weeks. Getting to read how much you're enjoying the story makes me work on it even harder and with a lot more enthusiasm, so I'll be incredibly grateful if you decide to share your thoughts on this chapter too <3 <3 
> 
> ((Also; if anyone guesses what Cas tattoo is, they get 10 brownie points (and a spoiler?). It has to do with Italy and literature both!))


	9. The storm - Cas POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends, it's finally posting day again! You should know that this chapter is very self indulgent; I'm talking like 70% indulgence and 30% plot, so hopefully it'll feel like a nice little break from all the drama AND answer some of your questions about Cas ;)
> 
> So here we go; tattoo reveal, more smooches, and me showing off being Italian! 
> 
> As always, thanks to to my betas, [eyesofatragedy ](https://eyesofatragedy67.tumblr.com/) and [ tipofmemory ](https://tipofmemory.tumblr.com/) for everything they do! <3

When Castiel finally wakes, it’s to the opposite side of the bed dipping softly. It’s like all his senses snap open all the same time then; he smells the faintest traces Dean’s cologne, the musky way it melts with sweat and the unique scent of his skin; hears the low rumble of a groan as Dean swings his legs off the bed; feels the warmth of his skin leaving his own like an actual ache right in his chest. There’s the soft thumping of bare feet on plush carpet and the sounds of the bathroom door being closed.

His brain catches up right after his body. And it’s like being emptied and filled at the exact same time. Knowing Dean is there, close and warm and rumpled, and that he’s not his to have; that of all the things they should be doing right now, sleeping together, cozy in a nest of blankets that smells like the both of them, definitely isn’t one of them.

Dean comes back, perches on the bed like he’s unsure of whether he’s still welcome in it.

Telling himself there’s no way out but through, Castiel forces his eyes open, blinking sleepiness and dryness away. When his vision adjusts to the light he can see that it’s barely dawn, a soft, pink light seeping through the curtains, painting Dean’s skin a blue-ish grey that makes him look like he just stepped out of an old movie.

Dean sits on the opposite side of the bed, bare back slouched forward, shoulders hunched, all muscles tense, like he’s Atlas and he’s only just realized how much the world actually weighs.

Castiel’s hands twitch a little with the desire to reach out and smoothe out all those stress wrinkles, knead deep into his muscles and make it all better once again.

“Hey,” he says instead, raspy and soft, because he doesn’t know how Dean will react to touch right now. Last night suddenly feels a million miles away, its edges soft and blurry, like it might have all been a dream.

The covers rustle softly when Dean turns back around to face him.

“Heya, Cas,” he says, eyes gentle and a little unsure.

There’s a beat of silence as they look into each other, trying to find traces of a confirmation, of doubt, anything. The longer it drags on, the more stifled Castiel feels, lungs dry and dusty, like every breath has to be pushed through a funnel that’s too small. He starts to feel the telltale speeding up in his pulse, a warning that panic is imminent.

“Your hair is insane, man,” Dean says eventually, a low hum, curled around a smile. It doesn’t drain away all the tension and the guilt, but it helps.

Dean’s hands help too, when they trail slow over his shoulder, Dean’s eyes following the movement reverently.

“How’s your shoulder?” he asks, without moving his hand.

As soon as he registers Dean’s words, it’s like the pain is rushing back in all at once. Like his brain had been so wrapped up in everything _Dean_ that it hadn’t even had the chance to register the deep, bruising ache in his shoulder.

“It’s uh- alright- it hurts,” he mumbles. “I’ll be okay, though; your painkillers helped.” He sends what he hopes is a reassuring smile in Dean’s direction. Judging by the way Dean’s mouth thins in suspicion, he doesn’t think he did that good of a job.

There seems to be some sort of conflict going on in Dean’s head. Castiel feels like the rest of his day depends on the outcome, and yet he has no say in it. He sits, silent and still, waiting for Dean to decide on which side of the bed to fall.

It’s oddly reminiscent of the night before, when Dean stood in front of the bed, a statue of marbled shadows, looking at him, studying him, swaying on his feet a little like he couldn’t figure out if he wanted to take a step forwards or five back - straight out of his bedroom, into the streets, and out of his life.

“Turn around, on your stomach,” Dean rasps out eventually, voice all straight and business like, to cover up a tremble Cas knows to be there anyways.

“You should, uh- robe off,” Dean adds before he can do anything else, and there’s the tinge of a blush on his words and on his cheeks. Castiel wishes he didn’t find it as endearing as he does. “Used to do this for Sam when he dislocated his shoulder; he said the massage helped.” He keeps on talking, his gaze now on his own hands, like he’s not sure he should have made the offer in the first place.

Castiel rushes to obey and let Dean out of his self-imposed embarrassment, robe slipping from his shoulders and leaving goosebumps in its wake.

It doesn’t even occur to him to question the order; he knows that if he did, the offer might be taken away. And somehow that thought, the cold stab of Dean’s rejection, sets in him a terror more vivid than any remorse he will be feeling towards all the responsibilities he’s avoiding right now.  
The pillow is cool on his heated cheek as he shoves his head in it and tries not to think about any of it too much; his muscles like piled coals, heat simmering low just beneath his skin, waiting for Dean’s touch to spark it back into life.

Except the touch never comes, Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything. The silence between them stretches but it doesn’t snap. Castiel is about to turn and ask him what’s wrong, at the risk of ruining the moment, but then there’s the feather-light touch of fingertips on his shoulder blade.

Slow and reverent, curious, like Dean’s exploring. It's so different from the deep purposeful touch of a massage, that Castiel is thrown off for a moment.

He realizes then, Dean must be looking at his tattoo, remembers his eyes widening at the first glance he had gotten of it the night before.

“It’s Dante’s _Inferno_ ,” he tells him, before Dean has even a chance to ask.

“Inferno? Like... Hell?” Dean asks, eyebrows bunched a little in confusion, like he’s looking for a reason why Castiel would want such a thing spanning over the entirety of his back. Castiel hopes he doesn’t ask, because he’s still looking for one too.

He just nods, humming in confirmation, as he pushes the covers down to expose the entirety of his back, giving Dean full access to the ink on his skin.

It’s with a soft, huffy breath, that Dean starts tracing the lines of his tattoo; and Cas can’t see it, but he knows he must be following the complicated patterns of the drawing through his skin.

“Each level is reserved for a different sin,” he starts explaining into the silence, eyes slipping closed as he talks. “It starts with the lighter ones, children who died before being baptized, people born before Christianity. The lower it gets, the worse the sin committed, and the worse the punishment.”

“What are the black wings at the bottom?” Dean asks, fingers slipping a little over his tailbone, caressing slow and deliberate.

Castiel shivers, because of touch, or because of the answer, he’s not sure.

“Lucifer,” he says. “They believed his fall from Heaven created Hell and its levels and that he now lives in its depths. It’s inaccurate but fitting at the same time,” he whispers, the mention of their shared past a dangerous territory.

Dean hums, his hands coming to a rest on Castiel’s skin. The silence grows heavy again, like Dean’s weighing something. Castiel waits him out.

“Where would I- Where would _we_ be?” Dean asks eventually, voice so low in the soft darkness that Castiel almost thinks he has imagined it.

He takes a beat to think about it, all the things he could say, wants to say, weighs them against the safe answers. He takes the plunge.

“Well, technically, Dante believed sex between men to be a sin in of itself,” Castiel says, slowly, barbed words in his mouth. “He puts sodomy as one of the worst sins, men condemned to run under a rain of fire, unable to ever stop unless they want to burn alive for a hundred years.”

“That seems excessive,” says Dean, and the words are light, but his tone is not.

“But also-” Castiel starts again, unable to leave things so bleak. “The second circle, Lust. Souls damned to swing into an eternal storm, as they were swayed by the winds of passion in life,” he says into the soft fabric of the pillow, and Dean’s hands stop in their journey for just a second, before he can feel the fingertips drag slowly back up between his shoulder blades, where he knows the second circle is inked deep into his skin.

“‘Amor, ch’a nullo amato, amar perdona, mi prese del costui piacere si forte, che, come vedi, ancor non m’abbandona’,” he utters, feeling a tendril of emotion weaving itself into the old words as they tumble down his mouth.

Dean’s movements still, and Castiel takes it as his cue to sit up. So he does, blankets pooling around his waist as he twists around to face Dean.

“What does that mean?” Dean asks, green eyes blown wide, voice tight and dry, like he knows he’s being spoken to with an emotion neither of them is ready to face.

“It’s something one of the damned tells Dante. She was killed by her husband after he found her laying with his younger brother. He went into a rage and killed them both. In the story they’re still swaying in the storm together, bound in sin like they were in lust,” he whispers, heart drumming loud in his chest as Dean gets closer, his calloused hand reaching to thumb at the soft hollow of Castiel’s throat.

“Cas. What you said earlier. What does it mean?” Dean demands, voice a low growl, dark and sticky like tar. And Castiel gets so wrapped up in it he doesn’t even mind that he’s drowning and won’t be able to ever come up for air again. He swallows before speaking, and it tastes like all the kisses they shared just hours before.

“Love, which doesn’t allow a loved one not to love back, desire for him took me so strongly, that, as you can see, it still doesn’t leave me,” he whispers, a hushed song that falls right on Dean’s parted lips.

Dean keeps looking at him, his eyes a glassy green, fluttering and wide and so so deep, they almost look like they’re on fire.

He almost looks wild, feral, whole body coiled tight, like he’s about to be caught in the storm, like they both already are, and he doesn’t care. The intensity swirling there confuses him, chokes the words in his throat, and he regrets ever speaking.

For the first time in a long time, he feels the bounds of his mortality like a choking hold, stifling the air right out of his lungs. He feels finite, mortal.  
And with everything in him, he doesn't want it. Doesn't want to die, doesn't want Dean to ever die. Because having Dean look at him like that feels a little bit like having his wings back; a warm, swooping weight between his shoulders, soft and mellow down his spine. And he's not ready to give that up, not now, not ever.

He doesn’t know how to say it, any of it. So he surges on instead, presses closer and closer until his lips find Dean’s, hot and wet and relentless. Dean crashes right back into him, calloused hands and rough stubble and impossibly tender mouth.

Castiel pictures the endless storm as their bodies crash together. Foaming like a wild riptide, skin slapping against one another like thunder.  
He pictures rain lashing at his naked skin, wind whipping his flanks, hair being ripped by the force of the storm; and Dean, always Dean, warm and strong, muscles rippling under his hands as they spiral away together, bound for eternity. In sin, love, and lust.

He feels delirious as he thinks that he wouldn’t mind an eternity of damnation if he could only spend it with Dean by his side, coiled around him, divine intervention be damned.

Dean’s hands are hungry, desperate, grabbing at him, clutching his skin so tight it hurts, and yet he doesn’t want it to end. He kisses him like Castiel still holds the secret of the universe right in his mouth, and if Dean just presses deep enough, they’ll all be revealed to him.

They fall back into the bed, a tangle of limbs that feels like they’ll never fully untangle from each other, emotions running so high they almost cloy his senses.  
He peppers kisses all over Dean’s skin, down the strong column of his throat, down his chest, his navel; and every gasp, every moan is a renewed plea, a new way for Dean to say he wants him, no space for uncertainties.

It’s impossibly tender, achingly erotic, the shameless way Dean desires him. It’s in the tightening of his thighs around Cas’s torso, a mirror image of the position they had found themselves in the night before. It’s in the way Dean’s hands reverently run through his hair, in the way he opens his body up, makes space for Castiel, lets himself be a cradle to Cas’s body.

The feeling of it is so intoxicating that Castiel thinks his human form simply isn’t built to handle it all, that he’s going to burst in a spectacle of molecules and matter at any second. He tries to respond in kind, to press as many assurances into Dean’s skin as Dean’s giving him, but it never feels like enough.

He needs to be closer, to be cloaked in Dean, surrounded by him, until nothing else exists outside of the two of them, until there’s nothing reminding them they don’t get to keep this.  
He just wants to forget everything that isn’t Dean and the way it feels to have him in his arms.  
It’s a delirious feeling, one he’s never experienced before, to desire so deeply, to want so strongly he feels like he’s going to shatter under the pressure of it all.

There’s desperation in the way he undresses Dean, his hands fumbling and shaking, trying to rush, trying to satiate the need before either of them can question it. Like any second they allow without their bodies touching is a second too long, a moment wasted.

Dean must feel his desperation because he kisses him deep and slow, big hands cradling his face on both sides so gently, like he’s a porcelain doll with a crack down the middle. Dean doesn’t want to break him; Castiel is certain that he will.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, soothing and gentle like Castiel has never seen him. He rubs his thumbs on his cheeks, pecks his lips so softly it barely feels like anything at all.

“I’ve got you,” he tells him, whispered and reverent. “Be right back”.

And then Dean’s up in a flurry of covers, and Castiel can’t do anything but watch his muscled back as he walks hurriedly to where he discarded his jacket the night before, retrieving something he can’t quite see.

He comes back to the bed, the lines of him all taut and firm. Tosses a bottle of lube and a box of condoms in Castiel’s lap and shimmies back onto the mattress, his gaze a heady combination of bashful and cocky. Castiel isn’t sure he’s catching up with the events as fast as he should. A moment passes before Dean’s foot is nudging him gently.

“Come on,” he says, spread out on the bed like the most sinful of paintings, decadent and obvious in his desires.

Castiel has to kiss him then, can’t stop kissing him, gentle and slow and then frantic and hard. Kisses him while he preps him, cold lubed fingers sliding deep inside Dean’s body, where it’s so hot and so tight. And Dean welcomes it all, thrusts back onto his fingers with reckless abandon, chases his pleasure unapologetically, like he wants every single drop of it.  
He’s greedy in his desire, gulps in mouthful after mouthful like even the most delicious of wines won’t get him drunk.  
It’s a show and a study in hedonism, Castiel thinks, and all he can do is take it in, let himself fall.

There’s an urge in his chest, to make it good for him, to make it so intense and so sweet, like if he’s good enough Dean will never be able to forget this, _him_ , will never be able to turn around and walk away.

It makes him fumble even more, the pressure, the feeling that this might as well be the very last time he has Dean like this, spread out and trusting. So it must be memorable; he must make it unforgettable. His hands slip as he’s putting on the condom, and he looks and feels idiotic all of a sudden; latex half hanging over his hard dick, kneeling between the legs of a man who seems to be the personification of sin itself, and not being able to take advantage of it.

He swallows, his thoughts thick in his throat as he adjusts himself again, tries to get back the reins of a control he doesn’t believe to be his anymore.  
The world sharpens and goes out of focus at the same time, heart thrumming in his eardrums, sweat gathering on his brow in an obvious display of his embarrassment.

“Shh, big boy,” Dean says, his smirk a combination of gentleness and bravado he seems to be the only master of. His hands are warm when they slip the condom back on Castiel, and the surge of arousal that shoots straight from his dick to his brain is so strong and so sudden he’s dizzy with it.

The world comes into focus again, and his world now is freckles and soft, flushed skin, the smell of summer and a gaze like a forest on fire.  
He kneels over Dean and pushes in, slow and strong, his movement deliberate, his eyes fixated on Dean and the keening little noises he makes.  
Breaths falter and stutter, and neither of them would be able to tell whose moans are slipping through the sheets.

The arch of Dean’s back as he shoves himself back onto Castiel’s cock is as indecent as it is graceful, and Castiel can’t believe he gets to witness him like this.  
He’s hot inside, and tight, and Castiel falls over his spread body like a man before God. Folded over the thick lines of Dean’s thighs like someone crumpled by the weight of something so much bigger than them, powerful and relentless.  
Deserving of awe and fear alike.

Dean’s hands are claws on his back, digging, anchoring himself there, like there’s a chance Cas might ever let him go.  
He won’t, can’t ever picture himself stepping out of the circle of Dean’s embrace; not now that he knows how hot it burns, how delicious.

He moves inside Dean, and every push is an exercise in passion and restraint. He wants him so badly, wants to carve himself a space inside him, so deep and so hot that Dean won’t ever be able to forget he was ever there.  
He feels delirious with jealousy, broken with need for this one single man.

If this is damning or salvation, Castiel isn’t allowed to know, not yet; all he knows is the furnace of Dean’s body as it squeezes around him. The flutter of his panting little breaths coming to die on Cas’s own cheeks as Dean moves and grinds and begs him for more, faster, harder.  
And there’s nothing that Castiel will deny him.

He fucks Dean with all the intensity he can muster, grinds deep inside him until he’s screaming and there are tears leaking out of his eyes. And then he fucks him some more, slow and hard, until Dean is a sobbing mess and his chest is heaving with the effort of pulling one single full breath in.

That’s how he likes him the best, he thinks, unraveled with pleasure, almost delirious with it, open and stunning.

When Dean comes, he does so with a surprised moan that’s so broken and breathless, Castiel can’t quite believe it actually came from him. Shoves his face in the crook of Castiel’s neck, his mouth a hot hot clench as he bites the skin there, blind to the consequences.

Castiel wishes he could see him, but maybe sight doesn’t really matter, not when he can feel Dean all over. In the hot sticky spurts on his own stomach, in the nails digging in his back, in the trembling muscles of his legs around him.

He thinks of seeing empires fall, countries burn in front of his legion, in a lifetime that doesn’t seem to belong to him anymore, and the sight doesn’t nearly compare.  
Not when Dean falls so spectacularly, his plunge so breathtaking he can’t look away.

The feeling of Dean’s body, mellow and liquid under him, is as heady as the feeling of him almost being feverish with desire, maybe even more so.  
Castiel is lost to the dream-like quality of it all, of Dean’s hands now a slack embrace around his back, in his hair, his mouth leaving the smallest kisses all down the column of his throat.

He only realizes his eyes are closed when Dean brushes his lips on his eyelids with a whisper of a kiss. He opens them then, just to be graced with the sight of Dean’s half-lidded stare, his eyes the color of leaves in the sun at the peak of summer, his cheeks red like apples, his lips parted and kiss-swollen, cherry sweet. Like a whole banquet laid out in front of him, for him alone.

He comes with Dean’s name on his lips, a moan that’s like a prayer, before everything is a buzzing pleasure, splashing through his brain, his body, and outwards. A pleasure so sweet it rips him apart and mends him at the same time, as he feels it pulsating out of his body in thick spurts, grinding inside the hot clench of Dean’s body until he’s completely spent, mouth dry and ears ringing.  
Until there’s nothing he can do but collapse in the circle of Dean’s arms, his own not able to support his weight any longer.

He lays there, splayed over Dean’s body, his limbs suddenly so heavy it must not be comfortable to lay under him, but Dean still lets him. He breathes a steady puff against Castiel’s ear, his hands rubbing lazy circles up and down his spine. Tangled together in silence, trying to find the pieces they lost of themselves during the past hour or so. Their bodies warm and sticky, afterglow settling around the both of them like a heavy blanket that pulls on the corners of his eyelids.

-

They must fall asleep at some point; because one moment Cas is trying to come down from a frenzied high, and then the next thing he knows is the feeling of a full bladder begging him to go relieve himself, accompanied by a deep, dull ache in his shoulder. Dean is plastered to his side, his embrace heavy and slack in his slumber, and Castiel makes himself leave the alcove of his arms, bracing for the unpleasant feeling of dried cum on his skin, surprised when it never comes.  
Dean must have cleaned them both up at some point, without Castiel even noticing. He’s struck with the tenderness he feels for this man then; so much so that he stays perched on the bed, one foot dangling down, all thoughts of biological needs forgotten, in favor of just watching him sleep.  
After a moment, Dean shivers and scoots over toward him a little, face shoved deep into Castiel’s pillow, tiny, rumbling snores puffing against the fabric.  
Castiel wants nothing more than to kiss him again, and again, and then once more, just to make sure he can never forget the taste of him.  
He hurries to the bathroom then, going through the motions as fast as he can, so that he can run right back to him. He brushes his teeth and he struggles to recognize the man he sees in the mirror, with his flushed cheeks and lovebites and bruises all over his skin.  
He expected guilt and regret, but he can’t seem to find them; has to wonder what it means that his heart is fluttering with excitement and longing instead.

When he gets back to bed, Dean is still in the same spot, snoring softly, one arm now slung towards the center of the bed; and Castiel can lie to himself and think it’s him Dean’s reaching out for. With measured movements, he slides back under the covers, under Dean’s arm, relishing in the instinctive way Dean burrows into him.  
It’s easy then, to drag his fingers through Dean’s messy locks, to observe the way he leans into every touch, like he wants it just as bad as Castiel does.

This isn’t how sex is for him, Castiel knows, this is not like it’s ever been with anyone else. This easy intimacy between Dean and him is as dear to him as it is foreign.

When he and Evan have sex, it’s always in the dark. They’ll lay down next to each other, bodies lounging under high-thread count sheets that feel rich against overheated skin, a few inches between them because Evan doesn’t like to be stifled when he sleeps and he claims Castiel’s body is a furnace.

Sometimes Evan lets him know beforehand when he plans on having sex. It’s usually on Wednesdays and Saturdays. His eyes will linger a little longer; he’ll whisper low in Castiel’s ear, suggest he goes home a little early, and he’ll know he’s expected to be prepped and ready by the time Evan gets back. It’s a routine like any other, and he doesn’t mind it; doesn’t mind the soft touch of cold fingers as they curl around his hip bones when Evan pushes slow inside him, doesn’t mind the weight on his back as Evan picks up his pace, until he’s spent and flopping over on his side of the bed.  
He’ll reach over and finish Castiel off with his hands and it’s good, it’s nice.

Sometimes they don’t schedule it; they’ll be laying in bed, neither of them really sleeping, until one of them will close the space, silent and urgent, a hand reaching out to touch all the skin available on the other side. They’re Castiel’s favorite times, when things just _happen_ , a little harried, unpolished, dark and soft. A messy, shadowy tangle of bodies, rutting against each other until they’re spent and sated.

They never really look at each other when they’re having sex. Castiel tries to recall the details of Evan’s chest, tries to remember the ways his face scrunches up when he reaches his climax, and he realises that he can’t. He’s never let himself look so deliberately at his partner; it had always seemed an exercise in futility and teenage lust. Not functional, superfluous.

It’s the opposite with Dean, it’s like he can’t get enough of him, the sight of him, of his flushed skin stretched tight over lovely muscles. The way his freckles spread all the way down his chest, where the flush chases them away until they’re almost invisible under it.

He lays down on his expensive hotel bed, closes his eyes and Dean is right there, sewn on the inside of his eyelids, with his golden skin and his messy hair, his dark nipples and the flushed curve of his sternum. The pudgy swell of his stomach as it curls over the band of his boxers.

The more he sees the more he wants to look, until there’s nothing to look at but Dean’s lovely form, contorted in pleasure, relaxed in sleep, trusting, open. Pretending to be his.

The sight of him alone undoes Castiel in ways he has never experienced before. It should terrify him, should send him running to the proverbial hills. Or better, send him back into the comfort of Evan’s arms, where he belongs. But the more he digs inside, the more he can’t find anything but desire. Hands reaching out, craving, wanting. For golden skin peppered with freckles and deep green eyes.

There are scars on Dean’s skin that he has never seen before, scars that weren’t there when he first saw him, all those years ago. He tells him so, later in the day, warm glow of the afternoon light bathing them both where they lay in their half opened hotel robes after yet another luxurious shower.

Castiel feels a little decadent and a little debauched, laying on the plush carpet of his expensive hotel suite, white robe open to expose his chest, his legs entangled with Dean’s as they eat the fresh fruit right off the plate with their hands. Sometimes a drop of juice escapes Dean’s mouth, in the careless way he still tends to eat his food, and lands on his naked chest.  
Castiel wants to lick it off and doesn’t care if Dean knows it anymore, so he does.

It surprises him more than any other of the events of the previous day, the fact that Dean is still there, warm and sleepy, sated and relaxed against him. They haven’t talked about what this all means, haven't talked about tomorrows and hows and whys; and while Castiel knows this is all a temporary respite from reality, that it’s not built to last, he can’t help but _want_. Can’t help but picture a million more lazy afternoons spent with Dean in the circle of his arms, rumpled and unguarded, eating fresh fruit right out of the palm of his hand, like a prince being pampered.

It burns in his chest, the desire to give him whatever he wants, to make him flush in delight and smile in fondness.  
It was easier before, to live without knowing how it feels to have the heat of Dean’s gaze planted right on him, to be the recipient of his desire and the master of his pleasure. Now that he knows what it feels like to see Dean fall apart under his hands, he’s not sure how he can ever walk back into the world and pretend he doesn’t.

“Tell me what happened?” Dean asks at some point between the shower and the fruit. “Back then, y’know. All these years, I thought- I looked for you, Cas. I looked _hard_. And I couldn’t find you. So- tell me?” His eyes are kind and his thumb is rubbing slow circles into his skin, and Cas is utterly defenseless.  
So he tells him. Tells him about the struggle at first, about surviving, not living, and the fear that would be it for him, his human life as much of a failure as his angelic one. Tells him about sleeping outside, the cold and the loneliness, and the cardboard beds; about people’s judgement being the hardest part. He doesn’t skip the bad details, even when Dean’s eyes go hard, even when his arms tighten around him in a bruising hold.  
He tells him because Dean deserves to know, always has, and maybe it’s selfish, but Castiel doesn’t want the guilt of leaving him behind to fill in the gaps anymore.

“I’m sorry that happened to you, Cas. Fuck,” Dean interrupts him after a while, “wish I had been there.” He whispers it in his hair with a suspiciously wobbly voice, and Castiel wants to hold him until he stops thinking he had any fault in what happened.

He tells him about the rest too, about the better things; finding a job and kind people, sneaking into libraries to read books, sneaking into lectures to listen. He tells him about meeting Evan, on a fall day, sitting quietly at the back of a class he wasn’t supposed to be in; the joy in finally being _seen_ , in finding someone as passionate and smart as him.  
Doesn’t skip the good parts either, because Dean might be here now, but he’ll leave again soon, and Castiel needs him to know he will be fine when that happens. So he talks through the clench in his throat, talks about renting his first apartment with Evan, even though all Castiel did was pay the gas bill; then actually enrolling into a program, Evan investing in him, believing against everything else that Castiel was worth something.  
It’s surprisingly easy, to talk about it all, to lay it out for Dean to see, from beginning to end. Dean is quiet through the whole thing, tells him he’s proud of him when he talks about the company; how he chose renewable energy, convinced Evan, then let Evan convince everybody else; investors, customers, employees; about finding a success he never quite anticipated.

“We were friends for a long time,” he tells him. “Friends first, then business partners. It just made sense to take the next step,” and he’s not sure for whose sake he’s saying that.

“You deserve to have someone, Cas,” is all Dean says, before he kisses him so sweet and so long Castiel forgets to feel sad.

It’s so perfect it cannot possibly last, and they both know it. When it finally shatters, it’s with the loud buzzing coming from Dean’s pocket.

They sit still, leaning against each other in the broken silence, neither of them moving, waiting for the buzzing to cease. It does, and doesn’t pick right back up, whoever is calling not being in a hurry.  
Castiel fiddles with the stem of a strawberry, waiting for Dean to be the one to make a choice one way or the other.

“Guess I should get that,” Dean whispers eventually, and his arms are still around Castiel; and for a moment he considers not letting him go, pulling him back down inside the nest they’ve built for themselves, and spend the rest of their time wrapped around each other.  
But he doesn’t.

He nods and watches as Dean walks up to where his pants lay discarded in the corner. He frowns at the phone for a second but doesn’t call anyone back.  
Castiel’s mouth is cotton dry as he watches him sit on the plush couch at the opposite end of the room, fiddling with a phone for a while longer.

This is how it ends, he thinks, with the quiet buzzing of a phone in the dust of a late afternoon, neither of them ready but both resigned to the inevitability of it all.

“I should call Sam,” Dean says, the shadow of a frown on his beautiful face, looking at him like he’s waiting on new orders from his lieutenant.

He nods, Dean makes the call.  
It shatters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, the indulgence didn't last that long did it? I'd say I'm sorry but we've got plot to get back to, so I'd be lying!  
> So what did you guys think of Cas past? His tattoo?? All the smooches???
> 
> Jokes aside, I know this chapter won't be everybody's cup of tea, I'm aware that the intensity can get a bit much, but I really really hope that you guys understood the mood I was going for and felt the characters' urgency and emotion <3  
> If you didn't like it, I totally respect that, I promise there will be some more action in the next few chapters!
> 
> It's been a super rough week in real life (don't apply to top doctorate programs if you're not ready to hear them say NO a lot!), and having this story to focus on, and reading everybody's comments really made a difference for me. I love that I get to share this with you guys and I'm very grateful to every single person who decides to come along for the ride. Double grateful if you decide to kudos/reblog/comment too!😂  
> Seriously, THANK YOU, your support means a whole lot to me 💙
> 
> Here's [my tumblr](https://flurryflair.tumblr.com/) if you wanna see a bunch of unatagged destiel stuff!
> 
> ALSO, [here's a picture](https://render.fineartamerica.com/images/rendered/default/poster/8/8/break/images-medium-5/10-dante-inferno-granger.jpg) of Dante's Inferno, Cas's tattoo is modeled after it, just a lot prettier/refined and with the black wings at the bottom.


	10. Tomorrow pt.1 - Dean POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellowww =) So this week has been really crazy, but I still managed to get through it somehow and actually edit this chapter in time for posting, yay!  
> A warning: this chapter got so long (10k) that I decided to split it in two parts, so you're getting double Dean POV basically (sorry my Cas stans!). There was just so much stuff to get through, and I wanted everything to have its moment so it ended up being extra long. This is part one, part two will be posted next Friday as usual ;)
> 
> With no further ado; the phone call, the backup, and Dean absolutely NOT being affected by anything that's happened <3
> 
> Many thanks to [eyesofatragedy ](https://eyesofatragedy67.tumblr.com/) and [ tipofmemory ](https://tipofmemory.tumblr.com/) for helping with this chapter! <3

The phone call goes about as well as Dean was expecting, which is to say not at all. In Sam’s defense, Dean’s spent the past ten years or so telling him he didn’t want anything to do with hunting, using his skills to protect his family instead, keeping them safe within the bounds of a white picket fence of his very own.  
Apocalypse averted, licking their wounds, he had told Sam to get out of it, that they had both done enough, more than anyone else would have. Sacrificed lives and their own bodies for a greater good nobody would ever even thank them for. In his book they both deserved a break, and the fact that Sam always refused to take his own was only the first crack in what has become a great wide and deep rift between the two of them.

So when Dean picks up the phone and sits on Cas’s outrageously comfortable couch to make the call, he knows what to expect. And Sam doesn’t disappoint.

“You did what?” he asks, voice cold and tight in a quiet sort of rage that’s even more terrifying than the real thing. And Dean’s gotta tell him he got his ass stuck in a massive nest of ghouls that has probably been there for decades, secret and undetected and ultimately powerful.

He has to tell him he dragged Cas into it all too, and that goes down even worse.

Cas, with his nerdy little job, his pressed suits and his clean shaven face. With his fiance and his company and his wedding, and what the fuck is Dean still doing lounging half naked in his hotel room, expensive robe open on his chest, ass still throbbing from the thorough fucking he just received.

“Dean? What the hell- You there?” Sam’s voice on the speaker is dripping with annoyance and concern, and Dean has to postpone his own little meltdown for sometime in the future, when he’s not begging his own little brother for help. Yeah.

“Sure, uh- ‘m here,” he mumbles. “Cas too,” he adds, because he is one moronic motherfucker who apparently loves making every situation the worst it can possibly be.

But how can he not say his name, when Cas is looking all forlorn and sad, crouched over his stupid bowl of fruit, cradled in his own fuzzy robe, hair a mess and fingers sticky where he was feeding Dean by hand.  
He even smiles a little from across the room, like he’s pleased he’s being mentioned. Dean is so fucking weak for him, it’s not even funny.

He smiles back.

Sam breathes in, and it’s easy to picture the pinched look on his face.  
“If this all happened last night, then why did you wait until now to even call me? It must be like what? Four pm in Texas?” he asks then, and the blood that was coursing happily in Dean’s veins suddenly curdles.

“We, uh- I mean, me, just me. I was, y’know- Was recovering and stuff,” he stammers, eyes wide and hands suddenly clammy, gaze locked with Cas, his concerned and guilty expression almost an exact mirror of Dean’s own.

“You took almost a full day to recover? Couldn’t even pick up the phone? Never thought I’d say this, but man, you really are too old for the job,” Sam snarks. And if he thinks there was something fishy in Dean’s words, he doesn’t show it.  
“You guys could have gotten hurt for real, and an afternoon nap wouldn’t have fixed it, you know,” he adds, serious again, and Dean can smell a lecture like a thunderstorm in his words.

“No need to get your panties in a twist, Sammy. Cas’s fine. We’re both- both okay,” he says, and he can practically see the eye roll Sam’s giving him right now, but doesn’t give it too much thought.

Sam is bitchy and snappy for the rest of the call, in a way that makes Dean feel like a little kid who got out of line and has disappointed his favorite teacher. It’s not a feeling he especially enjoys.

“So you gonna help us with it, or what?” he asks eventually, because Sam seems very preoccupied with telling him just how idiotic his little stunt was and listing all the things that could have gone wrong.

Sam seems to be thrown off by his question. “Of course, Dean,” he says petulantly, like there’s so much he wants to add on top of that but deep down knows it’s a lost cause. “I should be able to get there by tomorrow night, and I’ve got a couple friends in Fort who should be able to join too,” he says.

A stone drops deep down in Dean’s guts. He wants to say that tomorrow night is too soon, that he doesn’t want Sam to come close enough to see what’s going on between him and Cas - whatever it is - because Dean sure hasn’t figured it out for himself yet, and he’d kinda really like to. Before he’s told it’s wrong, that it’s a bad idea and they should stop.

“Sounds good,” he says instead, the phone a cold weight in the clammy palm of his hand.

He hangs up and then keeps sitting on the comfy couch, his eyes on the floor, because he doesn’t really know what to say now. The silence that was honey sweet and cozy minutes ago is now heavy and cold on his shoulders. The space between them simultaneously too big and not enough, it sits itchy on Dean’s skin.

He wants Castiel close, stuck to him, warm skin against warm skin, like you couldn’t fit a single breath between the two of them; but he also wants him gone, returned to his dusty status of blurry memory, something that used to exist only in the hazy space right before sleep, a passing thought for a long lost friend, nothing more.  
Things were easier like that. Or maybe they weren’t.

Because now Dean knows what Cas's lips taste like, what his skin tastes like; the pitch of his moans as he pushes inside Dean’s body. The weight of that knowledge is heavier than any passing sense of guilt.

He hears it when Cas stands and walks up to him. He does so tentatively, feet shuffling quiet on the carpet, like he’s not sure if this is okay anymore, like at any second Dean is gonna bolt upright and scream at him that they’ve done it all wrong, that it was a mistake and it’s never happening again. Like he’s fully ready to accept it when Dean leaves him behind. Dean hates how close he is to doing exactly that.

He also hates the kicked dog expression on Cas’s face. The way his hands twist in front of him, looking fragile and unsure, not at all like the powerful relentless force that had manhandled him into bed the night before, folded him in two, split him open and given him the most intense pleasure of his life.

“Fuck this. Sit down, Cas,” he says, shuffling to make room for him and then immediately shoving closer, Cas’s warmth a gravity he’s powerless against.  
“Sammy said he’s coming tomorrow,” he says, his hands searching for the hem of Cas’s robe.  
Cas nods and looks like he’s gonna ask him something but doesn’t know how to.

“Tomorrow’s good,” Cas whispers.

Tomorrow isn’t right now.

Tomorrow means they still have more time.

There isn’t a reasoning behind what Dean does next, no thoughtful deliberation, just an insistent pull from deep within his gut, like a string tied to his bellybutton and connected to Cas’s fingers.

Kissing Cas again, in the light of day, with no fear to hide behind, no shadows to protect him, it’s a lot like drowning. Drowning but slowly, not caught in the relentless surge of a fast moving river; more like sinking in a mountain lake, clothes heavy as he falls deeper and deeper, the water so blue and so clear he can still see the sky above him and yet has no desire to rise to the surface again.  
He feels the water close above his head, his feet hit the mossy rocks below, an embrace so cold and so absolute that Dean has no need for light or warmth anymore. He is complete, his whole body sunk and weightless, devoid of choice and responsibility.

Cas kisses him back slow and gentle and a little sad, his big hands on Dean’s face. Even if he opened his eyes, all he would be able to see is Cas, Cas, and again Cas.

The rub of their tongues together is languid and erotic and unhurried, and Dean feels himself getting chubby under the robe; he isn’t sure if he’s hoping Cas will notice it or not.

Cas’s chest is warm and firm under his hands, and Dean can’t get enough of the tickling feeling of his chest hair on his palms. He slips his hands inside Cas’s robe, thumbing a dark nipple, running slow on his pec and causing a shiver to erupt on his skin.  
He’s about to run them right between Cas’s thick thighs, where he can feel him hard and hot, when the kissing suddenly stops.

Cas detaches from him with a little wet noise, and there’s a whine of protest right on Dean’s lips that never gets to see the light.

Cas touches the tips of their noses together, like a child, then rests his forehead on Dean’s and just breathes, deep and slow, his fingers a secure clutch around Dean’s wrist, not pushing him away, but not letting him move forward either.

Neither of them says anything, breathing in the same air, and Dean wonders if this is it, if this is when the other shoe finally drops on his head and breaks whatever spell they’ve let themselves fall under for so long.

“Dean, I-” Cas says eventually, his eyes still closed, resting against Dean.

“Sam won’t be here until tomorrow,” he repeats, stupidly, like that tiny piece of information should be enough for the both of them. Like the notion of tomorrow still holds a meaning for either of them, like tomorrow can be enough.

“And what then?” Cas asks, his head moving back a little, so he can look Dean in the eye. His gaze is soft and pained, like he’d rather be anywhere else, do anything else, than be talking to Dean about tomorrows and all the other things they don’t get to have together.

Dean suddenly feels stupid, wants to take his hands back from Cas’s skin and drag them to cover his own face. “Fuck if I know,” he mumbles, hands falling back from the warm alcove of Cas’s stomach, abandoning their post.

He drops his gaze and pushes the breath out of his lungs in one slow, long exhale, almost thinking that the longer he drags it out, the longer he gets to bask in Cas’s presence.  
Apparently he went straight past the clingy stage, right into pathetic. Not that anyone would have expected any better from him, but still, it was a fast turnover, even for him.

“Dean-” Cas says, a shiver of uncertainty in his voice, and Dean’s kinda glad they’re both pretty much grasping at straws with this. “Talk to me,” he whispers, gentle fingers trying to hold his own, but Dean doesn’t let him.

He can’t, truly. He can barely trust his walls not to crumble completely and let it all flood out. Having Cas touching him, holding him like he’s something precious, to be cherished, it’s too much.

And Dean knows he’s right, knows they should talk about this, figure out boundaries and wants and needs and regrets, before they manage to completely shatter whatever they had been building between the two of them. Before Dean let his dick take over and ruin the very same friendship he had been longing for the last ten years or so, just as he'd gotten it back once more.

If he was the type to talk, he’d say he feels foolish, like the walls of the hotel room are gonna drop at any moment, fall flat like a slab of cardboard, just to reveal a full house of audience clapping and laughing at his idiocy.  
He can almost feel their gaze on the nape of his neck, like at any moment’s notice, the cameraman is gonna jump from behind the curtain and tell him it was all a prank, all along, and he fell for it.

And if he were the type to think about his feelings, he’d say he feels scared, terrified even. Caught in a dusty limbo of sorts, where the guilt towards Lisa isn’t quite enough to make him walk away, and the desire for Castiel isn’t quite shameless enough to beg him to stay.

“Whatever, man,” he says instead, with a shrug so pointed that Cas’s hand falls from his knee. “Gotta go back to being the blushing bride. I get it,” he says, the words thick in his throat, wishing he had enough courage left in the empty barrel of his chest to actually look Cas in the eye as he says it.

Truth is, he’s a coward, one who’s always been taught that a wounded animal lashes out, doesn’t let its weakness show. That in order to survive you have to bare your teeth even as they’re chattering in terror, and hope you look convincing enough to cheat death.

From the way Cas recoils, Dean guesses he was believable enough. There’s a passing thought that says John Winchester would be proud of him, and it makes the bile rise in his throat even worse.

He stands up in one swift move, that doesn’t leave either of them much space to second guess it, doesn’t let himself glance at Cas and read whatever he’s got written on the wrinkles between his brows.

There’s a roaring thump in his ears with every consecutive step he takes away from Cas, the crashing noise of his walls slamming all the way back up, to cover him up, to hide how small, weak and pathetic he’s always been.

Heavy silence, he expected. What he didn’t expect was Cas following him, his feet padding quietly on the carpet, his hands a sudden and heavy vice over Dean’s forearm, spinning him back around so he’s forced to face him right on.

“That’s it? You’re walking away?” he asks, his voice a deep and dark rumble that cracks in the middle. The blue of his eyes is electric, all whipping winds and lashing rain, like he was just this morning.

Dean’s mouth is dry when he answers.  
“What else is there to do, Cas?” he chokes out. “Wasn’t this what you wanted?” there’s still a frisson of hope in his chest, tender and aching, for Cas to gather him back in his arms and tell him everything is going to be okay, that he isn’t walking away, that he isn’t letting Dean walk away.

He almost thinks he would believe him, if Cas whispered it in his ear, close and raspy like he was just minutes ago.

But Cas just drops his gaze to the floor, his fingers slipping loose on Dean’s arm once more. Like all the fight has suddenly been punched out of him and he’s as lost as Dean feels.

“I just...” Cas murmurs, shaking his head a little, his shoulders rolling back then slumping, heavier all of a sudden.  
“You didn’t finish your food,” he points out a little miserably, the robe slipping down to cover his hand as he gestures to the abandoned plates of food at the foot of the bed.

Dean wants so badly to take pity on him, it’s like a genuine, physical pain to shake his head and tell him no.

But he does it anyway, because one of them ought to, eventually, and Dean’s always been the kind to cut his losses while he’s ahead. He’s not even sure he still is ahead at this point, but he figures it doesn’t really matter.

Cas helps him find his clothes, doesn’t mention them being scattered all over the room, doesn’t look at him when he slips back into them, like Dean’s grown a sense of modesty all of a sudden. It’s strange and strained and everything Dean didn’t want it to be when he was kissing Cas on the couch and hoping to keep the pretense up just a little longer.

In the end, he can’t wait to get out of the room, everything that made it feel cozy and luxurious suddenly a mockery of his ridiculous desires.

He only glances back at Cas once he’s at the door, because deep down he’s weak and can’t really help himself.

“I’ll let you know when Sam’s in town. He’ll want to see you,” he says and it almost comes out nonchalantly, like Dean won’t be the one jonesing for another hit, for another little scrap of Cas’s tempestuous gaze.

Cas nods.

“I’ll see you soon, Dean.”

Dean decides to take it as a promise, even if he won’t admit that to anyone, especially himself.

——

He doesn’t see Cas after that, doesn’t know if he’s sleeping well, doesn’t know if his shoulder hurts, if he’s taking the painkillers that Dean bought him. But he doesn’t wonder, doesn’t think about him; he definitely doesn’t picture him alone in that obnoxiously large hotel room, lovely and lonely in his fuzzy robe.

He’s got three projects he’s supposed to be working on, for his actual real adult job, he doesn't have the time to spare on such thoughts, energy to run his brain and wonder if Cas is regretting it all, packing his bags and taking himself as far away from Dean as he possibly can. And Dean’s only got a phone number, doesn’t even know where he lives, can’t remember the name of his company. He absolutely doesn’t think that if Cas goes, he won’t be able to find him again, that he will go back to being dead, as unreachable to him as he’s been for the past ten years.

Because if he did start thinking about that, then he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep, wouldn’t be able to stop picturing the way Cas looked when he left his room, or the way his eyes went all soft and mellow when he first woke up, looking at Dean like he was sin and salvation rolled into one. Wouldn’t be able to forget the words he said, like he was ready to do away with the safety blanket of his new life, to be thrown in an endless storm, prisoner of the literal bowels of hell, just to be with Dean.

With so many things he can’t afford to think about, Dean doesn’t let himself get lost inside his own head.

He shuts himself in his studio because work, especially when it’s manual and a little brutal, has been his escape every time he and Lisa had a fight. So he drives the truck straight from Cas’s hotel to his workshop, works until he’s lost sense of time, only stops when he finally pinpoints the strange smell on his skin as Cas’s body wash. Has to stop then, suddenly at the risk of chopping a finger straight off. Waves of longing rush through him so strongly and relentlessly, he has to tell himself it’s hunger and tiredness, because there’s no way he’s facing the fact that his body misses Cas like he misses a whole damn limb.

By the time Sam gets to Austin, Dean has almost scratched himself out of his own skin. His thoughts are buzzing bees in his brain and he can't seem to get a hold on any of them.  
The longer he spends on his own, the harder it gets to keep it together.

The skin on his hands is soon dry and cracking, dust and splinters embedded deep where he keeps being careless and distracted in his work, knuckles tight and bloody where he doesn’t have Lisa to remind him to slap on some lotion once in a while.

He misses her then, tries his best to make himself miss her. Thinks of the good times they’ve had, the family they’ve built together and the promises they’ve made, and how Dean’s bailed on all of them. Even then, the ache left by her absence is a dull and dusty one, born out of duty rather than feeling.

So yeah, when Sam finally gets there it kinda feels like he’s got his own little rescue group, in the form of the lumbering gigantic form that is his little brother.

It’s weird and it’s not, to be in the same room as him after so long, pouring over notes and plans, the both of them slipping back into old roles like a well worn pair of boots, the leather molded by their shapes, welcoming them back in with warmth after the first few cracking steps. Garth joins them and his presence is the safety barrier they both need, prevents them from getting too close to actually talking about any of the issues that they have piled between the two of them. It’s safe, familiar, pretending it’s ten years ago, the two of them against everything else, the very last barrier before a world that keeps crumbling down.

Ghouls on the forefront of his mind, he doesn’t even have time to think about Cas and the Cas-shaped ache now residing solidly between his ribs, like the phantom of a limb he was never supposed to have.

So when Sam directly asks him where Cas is and when he’s joining them, Dean’s blood immediately runs a little stale.

Not like he didn’t know it was coming, but still, he’s at a loss for a second, mouth gaping stupidly as he fishes for a good explanation. Aware that the longer he stays silent, the more suspicious he looks, but nonetheless unable to kickstart his brain into action.

Salvation comes, unexpectedly, in the form of Garth’s nasal voice.

“Bet it’s that shoulder a’ his givin’ him hell,” Garth says. “Takes a lot outta you if you ain’t used to it.” His eyes are kind and devoid of judgement and a little conspiratorial when they meet Dean’s.

If he didn’t think Garth was a good friend already, Dean would be ready to crown him right about fucking now. He’s definitely a better friend that Dean deserves, and he feels grateful deep in his bones for his unassuming kindness.

He holds onto Garth’s words like a safety raft, so tightly that he can picture his white knuckles as he heaves himself upon it, wills rationality into existence.

Sam is even more disgruntled to know that Dean didn’t tell him about Cas’s injury, looks at him with his deep, sad eyes, with an expression that never fails to make Dean feel like he’s eight again and left his favorite stuffed toy at the motel.

“It was just a dislocated shoulder. He’s a big boy; he’ll survive,” Dean says, like he hasn’t been worrying about Cas for the past 48 hours. The more he lies, the easier the words fall from his mouth.

Sam doesn’t seem placated by his explanations, demands to see Cas before they go for the hunt, so he can see for himself, like Dean’s an extremely unreliable source of information at this point. Dean guesses he can’t really blame him, can’t deny his request without exposing at least a sliver of the shameful truth of what exactly he and Cas have been up to since they ran into each other.

“Sure, I’ll, uh - text him. Yeah, I’ll text him,” he says, fingers shaking where they grip the phone. He’d be lying if he said he’s not glad for an excuse to finally reach out to Cas; he’d also be lying if he said the thought doesn’t scare him to his very core.

Turns out, Cas responds in the span of a minute and a half, saying he’s happy to meet Sam. Adds a second text, approximately thirty seconds after the first one - not that Dean’s counting - saying that he had been waiting for Dean to text him. And Dean tries not to read much into it, tells himself Cas is talking about the hunt, because he is, but nevertheless there’s a tiny bubble of warmth blooming slow and quiet in his throat.

It takes them a few more hours to get to Cas’s hotel, putting together a much smarter plan for the hunt with Sam and his hunter buddies. There’s two of them: a young redheaded guy named Caleb, who is young and brash but listens to Sam like he alone holds the secrets of success and wisdom; and Rudy, who’s older, balder, and stealing glances at Dean like he knows exactly who he used to be. They both follow Sam’s leadership without question, and Dean guesses they’re bearable enough.

It gives him a strange sort of pride, to see his brother being so confident, so commanding in his opinions as he figures out the best way to attack, the best weapons, the most informative lore.  
It’s disconcerting in a way; like Dean always knew how smart Sam was, but had always been too close to fully appreciate his talent, how his brain is more than perfectly suited for hunting. It makes him think of all those discussions, telling Sam he was wasting his life chasing ghosts that didn’t need chasing, burdening himself with responsibilities that shouldn’t have to lie on his shoulders.

He can see it more clearly now, how Sam thrives there, with his books and his knowledge and his quick brain; his phone going off at least three separate times while they’re sitting in Garth’s cabin, hunters from all over the place calling him to confirm a bit of lore, to validate their story. And Sam does it all seamlessly, witty and confident, and Dean can’t help but be overtaken with a blooming and bright pride. Almost feels it’s like it’s not his pride only, like he’s somehow channeling Bobby too, his chest expanding to make room for the explosion of warmth and genuine pride coming from the old man, wherever he ended up.

When he smiles at him, Sam frowns a little, suspicious.

“You’re good at this, Sammy,” he says, a warmth in his words that hasn’t been there in years.  
Sam doesn’t even bother hiding just how taken aback he is, recoils a little where he was slouching over the table, arms crossing over his chest like he can’t quite figure out what to do with them, what to make of Dean’s words. Dean doesn’t blame him.

“Yeah, uh, thanks, I guess,” he says, eyes a little shifty and embarrassed, but a small smile curving his mouth.

They nod at each other, and it’s not enough; it doesn’t fix the past ten years. But it’s a tiny bridge across the ridge, the first stitch over a wound that’s still aching and open, but clean and not bleeding anymore.

When they finally set out to Cas’s hotel, it’s dusk, the air doing its best impression of the slightest chill, like if you tried hard enough you could pretend it was still late winter.

Dean rolls the windows down, teases Sam when his hair whips him in the face, puts the music on extra loud when Sam tries to protest and put the windows back up.  
It’s almost easy then, pretending everything’s the same, even as everything’s changed, and keeps changing at a speed Dean can’t even hope to keep up with.

Cas is his usual polite and raspy self when he comes down to meet them in the hotel lobby. And Dean’s not sure why he was even expecting him to be different, to have changed into a whole different and unknowable being during the handful of hours Dean hadn’t seen him.

“Hello, Samuel,” he says, “it’s good to see you; it’s been a long time.” He says it with the shadow of a smile on his lips, and it stays there as Sam steps forward to wrap him in a hug. Cas’s arms come around him, pat his shoulders. “I missed you,” he adds, and he’s looking at Dean over Sam’s shoulder, eyes so blue and sincere it makes Dean weak in his knees.

It makes him want to sink all the way down to the floor, crawl to him, slide his palms over thighs he knows to be strong, put his muddy prints all over his body, so that anybody would be able to see that he belongs to someone, that he belongs to Dean.

It’s an irrational and senseless jealousy, in his guts, his brain, his chest. Bitter on his lips, as he wishes Cas would kiss it all better.  
He’s never felt like this, territorial, like he’s about one step away from pissing in a circle around the guy.

When he realizes he’s spaced out it’s about ten full seconds too late, three sets of expectant and confused eyes squarely planted on his quickly reddening face.

“Are you feeling ill, Dean?” Cas has the guts to ask him, his face all frowny and concerned, and Dean wants to punch him almost as badly as he wants to kiss him.

“I’m good. I’m- yeah. What’s up?” he says, tries to recover, hoping the blush on his cheeks isn’t obvious to the whole room.

“I was telling Cas he should rest his shoulder and let us deal with the hunt,” Sam says, and his eyes are a little heavy with suspicion already. “You agree with that, right?”

It’s then he realizes Cas isn’t dressed in his lounging clothes, but instead is looking more rugged than Dean’s used to seeing him; jeans and a hoodie and boots that look like he just bought them, and Dean knows that’s probably exactly what happened. There’s even a bag slung over his shoulder, like he’s ready to head straight out the door and into the cemetery.

“The fuck are you thinking, man? You ain’t coming,” he says before he can fully connect his brain to his mouth. Cas’s stare hardens and his lips flatten in a disappointed line, and Dean knows he’s said the wrong thing.

“I was under the impression this wasn’t a social visit, Sam. I thought we had work to do,” he says, speaking to Sam, ignoring Dean altogether.

Sam raises his hands placidly, like he’s gonna try to defuse the situation,but Dean’s already ignited and there’s no going back.

“Well you were wrong. Sam just wanted to say hi, but if you’re done with the pleasantries, we’ll be on our way,” Dean interrupts, foot planted behind him, ready to pivot the fuck out of the hotel. Because there’s no way he’s letting Cas in that crypt again, not after what happened last time.  
Dean has fucked up his life enough for one week.

Cas glares at him with such intensity, Dean starts doubting he’s actually still human, limbs quivering in apprehension like he’s about to be smote to death.  
He stands his ground.

“Will you excuse us, Sam? Dean and I need to speak privately,” Cas says eventually, addressing his brother, without taking his eyes off of Dean for a second, the weirdo.

Sam shuffles away with a confused glance, settling down a few tables away. Dean can feel his wondering stare on the back of his neck from all the way across the room. So much for being inconspicuous.

Cas stands silent and strong in front of him, tension quaking in every line of his body, like he’s ready to fight Dean tooth and nail.

“Look man -Cas, you got hurt kinda bad last time, and it could have been so much worse, and I can’t-" he breathes in, "I don’t want it to happen again, okay? It’s not worth the risk. Maybe you should just sit this one out,” he says, with a calm and gentleness he’s surprised of.

Cas seems a little taken aback, a little mellowed out. Dean starts hoping he might actually have a half chance to convince him to just stay back, where Dean knows he’s safe.

Then Cas opens his mouth.

“We started this together, Dean, and I guess I-” He looks at the floor, then drags his eyes back up to Dean’s face. Big, blue and sincere “We should end it together,” he says, and his throat bobs as he swallows, licking his lips like he’s nervous all of a sudden. The words rasp out of his mouth like he’s talking about the hunt and so much more.

Dean wants to reply, inhales hard, lungs straining against his ribcage. “Cas-”

“I will be careful,” Cas interrupts him, like he’s seen a weakness and he’s going for it ruthlessly. “I’ll let Sam take the lead. Actually, you should stay back too; you can keep an eye on me,” he finishes almost in a rush, chin raised defiantly, like he’s just bested Dean.

There was a fight in him, Dean knows, but it’s somehow deflating out of him.  
“Suit yourself,” he says. Because who is he to tell Cas what to do? He’s got no authority over him, no claim. All he can do is follow close and hope for the best.

He gets back to Sam, Cas in tow, and doesn’t turn to see what kind of expression is now sitting on Cas’s face. It’s not his problem, shouldn’t be his concern.

Sam looks at him when they get close, eyes questioning, keys ready in his hand.

“Let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's pumped for the ghouls part 2? Not Dean apparently!  
> As you can guess, next chapter is going to be about the hunt and everything that happens after. 
> 
> I really hope you guys enjoyed this one as a standalone chapter as well, and that all the tension between the boys, plus the NOT pining Dean's been doing was fun to read <3
> 
> As always, very grateful for all the kudos and comments and reblogs, if you take time to let me know your thoughts you truly have a special place in my heart, you guys have no idea the happiness it gives me and how much it means to me <3
> 
> Here's [my tumblr](https://flurryflair.tumblr.com/) if anyone's curious!


	11. Tomorrow pt.2 - Dean POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALMOST late with posting this week but I made it!  
> You know what to expect this time, again Dean POV, the hunt 2.0, and the brothers having a talk ;)  
> Enjoy!!
> 
> Big big thanks to [eyesofatragedy ](https://eyesofatragedy67.tumblr.com/) and [ tipofmemory ](https://tipofmemory.tumblr.com/) for being awesome betas <3

It’s hard to admit it, because Dean used to consider himself to be a pretty skilled hunter, at least good enough to make his dad and Bobby both proud two times over.

But that was ten years, fifteen pounds, and three kids ago. Now Dean lags behind, his senses not as sharp as Sam’s, his reflexes just a tad too slow to be considered impressive.

The four year gap between them seemed to make all the difference between sibling and caretaker when they were young; then at some point it stopped mattering altogether, years spent in Hell and on earth and in the places in between leveling the playing field between the two of them. Suddenly now they seem to matter again, Sam walking with a bounce in his step that Dean can’t quite summon. And maybe it’s the fact that he spent his last decade in the dull comfort of suburban life, his job the only source of strain on his body; while Sam has spent them hunting, refining his instincts.

Dean knows he would have felt bitter about it a few years back, can feel a prickle of envy and misplaced pride at the back of his brain, but for once, decides not to feed it. Guesses what he lost in muscle mass during the past ten years, he might have gained in maturity.

So he’s silent as he trails behind Sam, and Cas trails behind him, never getting quite close enough to risk Dean getting pissed at him all over again. He hears Cas’s sure steps just behind him and there’s nothing he wants more than to wrap him up in that old coat of his, make a burrito out of him and lay him back down in the warm safety of his hotel room. He’s not apparently in a position to do so, Cas made it clear, so he swallows those urges back down too.

They barge into the cemetery at the same time, but from three different points of entry. He and Cas stick with Sam, both for nostalgia’s sake and because, if he has to be really honest, they’re the ones who are most likely to screw something up.

He walks inside that crypt without much of his pride, but with his brother and his friend at his side, so he guesses things have a way of balancing themselves out.

Their plan is to drive all the ghouls to converge into the main crypt, where Sam’s minions have set up a system of traps that should all catch fire at the same time, trapping the creatures inside with no way to escape, leaving the five of them with just enough of a window to climb out through a hidden tunnel. That’s if the blueprints Sam found are to be trusted.

It’s a simple enough plan; pretend you’re bait, run, blaze of glory, don’t get caught in the roast. Dean thinks they can handle that much.

“You good? Last chance to bail,” Sam says, crouched over the entrance to the crypt, a smirk on his features, and Dean can read the excitement plain as day on his cheeks.

A surge of adrenaline zaps through his body, and he looks at Cas, his warm presence solid behind him. Cas nods, smiling a little.

“Whatcha waitin’ for Sammy, let’s go,” he says, and it’s not like rewinding the clock to ten years before, but it’s as close as they’ll ever get.

The crypt is as dusty and moldy as he remembers. They walk in, feet fast and quiet, and Dean resolutely doesn’t look at the corner he had shoved Cas in, and kissed him for the first time.  
He doesn’t think about the way he responded, a little surprised and a little not at all, his lips soft and plump, his hands shameless.

He can’t afford to get lost into the wave of longing that washes over him then, not in the middle of a hunt.

Everything feels different this time, his fingers shaking a little with trepidation, but not fear. He’s got his brother back at his side, and it kinda feels like together they can tackle whatever the day decides to throw at them.

Things heat up pretty fast once they’re all in, as soon as they’re deep enough into the tunnels that the ghouls can’t possibly miss them. He and Sam exchange a look and a nod. Dean steps forward, matches and lighter secured in his pocket, machete clutched in his right hand. He can do this.

“Come on out, boys and gals, brought some friends for you to meet!” he yells in a sing song voice, whole body thrumming with adrenaline. He can picture both Cas and Sam rolling their eyes, but his heart is thudding so fast in his chest, like there’s nothing more important than right here and right now.

Sure enough, the ghouls hear them and they start scurrying towards the noise, fast and pale and grunting. This time they’re ready.

Dean smiles at the first one he sees, a tall lanky creature, eyes dead and sunk in, hungry for a bite of live flesh he won’t get. When he swings his blade, fast and deadly, the rotting head of the monster slides wet on the ground, splatters of blood painting his face in the act. If he pretends it’s war paint, nobody can blame him.

The ghouls surrounding them screech in despair and anger as they witness the death of one of their own.  
“Come get me boys.” Dean smirks, feet poised to jump into a run for his life.

When he sprints he catches sight of Cas on his right, bounding away as fast as he can, following Dean’s lead without hesitation.

The chase is exhilarating; feet plummeting the ground, air in burning his lungs, the ghouls’ deadly breath warm on his neck as he sidesteps a rock, a root on the ground. He swings his blade behind him when one of them gets too close for comfort.

The plan works, the creatures following them deeper and deeper into the crypts, too focused on the chase and getting revenge for their first incursion to actually consider where they’re going. The fact that they’re fighting on the ghouls’ turf ends up working in their favor, as the creatures assume they have the upper hand, overconfident in their familiar environment.

By the time they get to the rendezvous spot, there’s congealed blood and goop of questionable origin on Dean’s face, his neck. He can feel it sliding down the curve of his spine, into his pants. Fuck, he had almost forgotten just how disgusting this job could get.

The large cave is already crowded when they run in, and Dean’s grateful they made it because he’s starting to feel breathless, and he can’t imagine Cas being in better shape than him.

Caleb and Rudy are already on the opposite side, and Dean spots Garth’s blade swinging in the air, slicing through two ghouls at the same time. _Not bad for a scrawny guy_ , he thinks.

Sam lights up a torch in the darkness, and it’s like a small sun in the pitch black surrounding them. Soon they’re all in position to light up the traps and they follow the plan, moving to the center of the room, where they know the groundskeeper has made sure to leave a certain tunnel unattended, hoping against hope the ghouls don’t care about it enough to use it.

“Now!” Sam shouts suddenly, his torch lowered to the ground, the flames immediately catching on the contraption, exactly like they were hoping. Dean raises his eyes and can see the same happening on all sides of the room. The ghouls are trapped between two rings of fire, unable to run back to the safety of their nests, and unable to step forward and attack them through the flames.

There’s screeching and chaos and more blades slicing through rotten flesh, as they all use the rest of their energy to fight back against the few of them who decide to try.

“Open the damn trap door!” someone shouts, urgency tinting their words.

Dean is the closest and the first to obey; he grabs Cas by the arm and all but shoves him in, head first, so that he can’t see the disapproving scowl painting his features. That’s a problem for later, when they’re both alive and uninjured.

One after the other they file in, panting, coughing, blades still pushing monsters away so they can’t follow them.

The fire roars and Sam and Dean are the last men left standing. Dean can feel the heat on his face, the pinching stench of the smoke shoving itself into his nostrils, throat, lungs.

His cheeks burn with the heat and he knows they need to get a move on soon or they’ll risk burning themselves into a crisp too. He still takes a moment to take it all in, turns to where Sam is now standing shoulder to shoulder with him, adrenaline pumping so thick in his veins he almost feels like he’s floating.

Sam looks back at him, smiles back, then pushes him towards the exit with urgency, like Dean’s gonna spend the rest of his night watching the ghoul campfire, whip out a guitar, and start strumming _Wonderwall_. The thought actually makes him laugh, and he’s too tired to wonder if he’s just going insane, so he lets it out, doesn’t even bother about Sam’s concerned look.

He’s still chuckling breathlessly, a laugh for every two coughing fits, when he heaves himself out of the tunnel and onto the dry soil. The others are laying on the grass in various states of disarray, tired and panting but alive.

Sam falls on the grass at his side after closing the tunnel behind them. “We did it guys,” he rasps, his voice a little thick with smoke. “Tunnel’s sealed, fire should die out soon, there’s no way they made out of there,” he says, arms spread as he also sprawls on the grass.

Everybody looks pleased, thrilled the hunt went as smoothly as they could have hoped.  
Cas goes ahead and full on beams at him when they lock eyes, like that’s something he does for Dean all the time. Leaves his smile bright in the open, like it’s a simple thing, an everyday occurrence, and not a sight that Dean will jealously guard for the rest of his days.  
He smiles back, just a little, their eyes locked in delight and relief, adrenaline stripping them both of the self-consciousness normally holding them back.

Then Sam clears his throat loudly, and he’s looking at the two of them with more than a grain of suspicion in his eyes.

Dean’s eyes shift back to the ground so fast he almost gives himself whiplash.  
“Let’s go grab food,” he says, dusting his thighs off as he stands back up. A chorus of agreements rises from the ground and just like that they’re in motion again.

They take several breaks, double checking each other for cuts and bruises, making sure the fire actually goes out, that the cemetery doesn’t cave in on itself. When it looks like there are no creatures left to kill, Garth somehow manages to convince all of them to go celebrate at a barbecue restaurant he’s been raving about since Dean first moved here. There’s still an excited buzz in the air as they all shuffle out of the cemetery and to their cars.

Dean’s about to climb into the driver seat of his truck, when there’s a warm and tentative touch on his skin.  
“You had something on your face” Cas says, hand raised to cup Dean’s cheek. He looks surprised by his own gesture, head tilted to the side a little, like he can’t figure out how his limb moved without him deciding to.  
Dean can feel himself blush under the dirt caked on his face, and maybe he leans into Cas’s palm just a little.

“Yeah, we should _all_ wash up some before we leave,” Garth interrupts, looking at them a little too knowingly for Dean’s comfort.

He steps away abruptly then, the spot where Cas’s hand was laying immediately colder.  
There’s a sigh that sounds like disappointment falling from Cas’s mouth, but he doesn’t let himself listen to it.

The restaurant is loud and messy when they get there, and nobody really looks at them twice, even with their hastily cleaned clothes that still reek of smoke and dust. They get to the counter and order more meat than they should, pile up a stupid amount of beer between the six of them; and it feels safe, surrounded by all these people who seem to see Dean the hunter, the old Dean, the one he hasn’t been in so long.

It’s strange, like he’s wearing his own old and discarded molt. Like he’s sewn his old skin back onto himself, but he doesn’t quite fit anymore, stitching and filling bursting at the seams.

Caleb and Rudy laugh and ask him question after question; Garth teases him, repeating the details of the hunt back at him like he wasn’t there to experience it too. And Sam. Sam listens to the stories he’s heard a million times already, an indulgent smile on his face, adding a detail here and there but letting Dean run the show. It boosts him, the easy camaraderie, the obvious admiration dripping thick from their gazes. Looking at him like he’s special, like he’s got something to teach them. Nobody has looked at Dean with that glazed over, awed kind of look in so long. It’s its own special form of delicious, and Dean laps it all up like a famished stray. He can feel himself moving more sloppily, making crass jokes, drinking like the liquor won’t ever get to his liver.

Sitting there, the smell of smoked meat in his nostrils, stomach full of red-blooded food, surrounded by this circle of men acting like they’re all brothers in arms, Dean feels alive. It’s a fantasy, one he hadn’t even known he was missing, but as he sits there, holding court, it’s like he just can’t get enough of it.

It’ll all go back to normal in a few hours; he’ll slink back into his life of anonymity and safety, and they’ll go on, forgetting about him.  
But right now, in this single finite moment in time, it feels like he could do anything. Like if he pushed against the ground hard enough he would actually take flight, sail through the air and leave everyone behind, wondering where the hell he is.

Cas is a warm, chuckling presence at his side, looser than he’s used to seeing him, slouching a little against Dean’s shoulder, a single point of contact that bleeds warmth all over his body. He doesn’t contribute much to the conversation, avoids direct questions for the most part and seems happier just sitting back and listening to him ramble on and on about things he already knows, his smile mellow and warm in a way Dean’s not sure he deserves.

It’s some time after Dean’s third whiskey that Cas excuses himself and shuffles slowly to the restroom. Dean spaces out a little, conversation lulling as he follows his retreating form. Cas is all thick and straight lines; he does look good walking away.

“Excuse me,” he mutters, body raising from the seat before he’s even decided he’s gonna leave too. There might be eyes following him, but he’s surprised to find that it doesn’t matter.

Cas has barely just turned the tap on, rinsing fingers sticky with sauce. His eyes are wide, confused when he sees Dean stumble through the door. And Dean’s got no idea what rules are even there for this kinda thing. Isn’t really sure what kind of thing there is between the two of them exactly.

What he knows is that he’s feeling warmth deep into his chest, buzzing all over like white noise, safe and mellow in his bones. And Cas looks like he’d look so good tucked under Dean’s arm, like they both should hold each other up, now that they’re tired and a little scuffed.

He steps forward, turns the tap off and then turns onto Cas, swallowing his gasp of surprise right into his own mouth.  
Cas doesn’t kiss him back right away, but his lips are open, soft, his hands warm and damp and hovering over Dean’s waist.

Dean kisses him harder, a hand sneaking into his hair where it’s soft and sticking in all directions, the other hooking around his waist, sticky fingers leaving smudges all over.

Cas’s back hits the wall and he finally kisses back then, hungry and open-mouthed, insistent, holding onto Dean’s waist so tight it’s almost like he thinks he’s gonna leave otherwise. It’s a vice Dean’s more than happy to be trapped under.  
Cas tastes like fire and smoke and liquor, a little bit like his own unique self, and Dean cannot get enough of him.

It’s a moment suspended in time, and Dean thinks this whole day has been an exercise in time travel, so he might as well embrace it. Let himself take all the things he’s always wanted but never dared to reach out to grab.

Mainly Cas, and the way he nips at Dean’s lips and grinds on him like he’s famished.

And Dean thinks that he would let Cas hump him straight into the wall without a single sound of protest, but he never gets to.

The door opens with a squeak and they’ve barely detached from each other when Sam’s lumbering form barrels through the door.

“Dean, what’s takin-”

His mouth is open in a big, silent “O”, his eyes heavy with a frown as he looks at the both of them and the undoubtedly guilty expression on their faces.

Silence hangs heavy in the air and it’s deafening, thumping in Dean’s ears. In the space of that second it’s like the illusion of the whole evening shatters. The whole thing dropping like the painted backdrop of a cheap school production, heavy and cartoonish, pathetic.

Standing there - in a restroom that Dean can now see is all old, yellowing and chipped tiles, smelling like piss and mold - his sticky palm still hooked around Cas’s waist, Dean’s 40 again, a pathetic fuck who cheats on his wife and leaves his children behind.

His hand drops.

“Sam, it’s not-” his voice is so thick he can’t even bring himself to finish the dumb sentence. Can’t bring himself to look at Cas, too much of a coward to make himself see what kind of expression must be contorting his features.

“The guys were saying they’re ready to go. I just came to call you. You-” Sam starts, eyes darting all over the place like he’s trying not to look at them. “You were missing a while,” he adds, words suddenly sharp, and Dean wishes he were as good at reading him as he was ten years back.  
“We’ll wait in the parking lot,” Sam finishes eventually, and like that he’s gone.

Dean looks at his boots on the dirty bathroom floor, counts the tiles, tries to pretend his eyes aren’t foggy with tears and failure.

There’s bile in his throat all of a sudden, his stomach knotting and unraveling in the span of a second, leaving him nauseous and dizzy.

When he realizes it’s not staying down it’s almost too late, feet scrambling on the ground as he flings himself into the first empty stall he sees, the contents of his stomach all rushing out his mouth.

He chokes, coughs, tears leaking out his eyes in earnest as he heaves over the toilet. His body is vibrating in what he knows is pure, unadulterated fear, his brain uselessly trying to get hold of the tattered edges of his frayed nerves.

He shuts his eyes tight so tears won’t come out, and it only serves to relive the scene all over again, Sam’s horrified, disappointed face swimming in and out of his thoughts.

There’s a cold pressure on the back of his neck, a shiver running all the way down his spine.  
“You’re okay,” Cas whispers from behind him, running a wet towel over his overheated neck, like that’s gonna do jack shit.  
Dean snorts bitterly, because he’s never been so far from being okay as he is right now.

He spits, flushes, watches the nastiness that came from him swirling down the drain. It’s easy to wish it was that easy to erase the evidence of all his sins, just like that.

Cas’s eyes are kind but guarded when he gets back up, and he doesn’t let himself search for answers he doesn’t even feel ready to hear.

He washes his mouth with tap water, but the stale bitterness is there to stay, no matter how much he scrubs. Cas watches him through it all, arms straight down, eyes turned low in the corners, like he wishes there was something he could say but knows it wouldn’t matter.

They don’t talk as they shuffle out of the restroom, Dean’s body suddenly aching in his sobriety, legs heavy like lead, wishing more than anything he could just lean on Cas, coil an arm around his waist, rest his pounding head on the solid pane of his shoulder. It’s easy to wish for it, and it’s easier to hate himself for even thinking that much; like their little scene should have been enough to be purged of everything, liberated from the desire that still pools heavy and hot in his gut, a sediment of relentless want that does nothing but weigh him down.

They reach the others in the parking lot, and everyone somehow senses the shift in mood, the air somber as they drive away, each to their own destinations.

When he drops Cas off at the hotel, he doesn't say anything, barely nods at him through the rearview mirror, and he can feel Sam’s eyes on him all the way through.

He’s both relieved not to have Cas’s distracting presence clouding the interior of the car, and upset he doesn’t have any buffer between Sam and himself.

There’s a _talk_ coming his way and his stomach churns unpleasantly, like he’d be emptying its contents once more, if he had any left.

“So, Cas...” One point two miles, that’s how long it takes Sam to bring it up.

“Yeah, what about him,” Dean rebuts, clinging to the very slight chance Sam might not know the precise extent of his fuck up.

“Dean, come on, I’ve walked in on you enough times to know what your ‘caught in the act’ face looks like.” Yeah, no chance of getting out of it, then. Cool.

Dean grinds his teeth so hard he thinks he can hear them crack.

“It’s complicated, Sam,” he spits out eventually, not letting himself turn to face his brother, feeling his expectant gaze digging holes on the side of his face.

“Oh don’t hit me with the complicated bullshit, Dean. It looked pretty straightforward from where I was standing,” he snarks, not as unkindly as Dean was expecting, his eyes a little hard and a little understanding, the way only family can be; seeing your fuck-ups and telling you they don’t matter, that you’re deserving of love, no matter what. Dean knows better, but he’s messed up enough that he’ll take everything that’s been given to him, even what he doesn’t deserve.

Dean’s disarmed, all his defenses laying at his feet; he’s got nothing to fight with anymore, and Sam knows it.

He shrugs.

“There really isn’t much to tell,” he tries, and it sounds like a lie to his own ears. He kinda wishes he could believe it.

Sam is silent for a moment.

“You know, I used to think there was something between the two of you, way back when.” And yeah, that’s not what Dean was expecting him to say. They don’t talk about this kinda thing, and they sure as fuck don’t talk about the past.  
He’s still trying to scramble his brain back together when Sam speaks again, “I dunno. You always had this- _intensity_ about the two of you. Like there was a lot more going on than you showed. Guess I was right.” He scoffs, and Dean knows exactly what he’s picturing, Cas all serious and squinty, his presence tall and imposing, his voice deep like thunder.

“There wasn’t,” he manages to squeak out, because it’s true. This thing between Cas and him, it was nothing more than a charged glance, a zing of electricity that would thrum through his veins without ever bursting into a spark.

“But there is now.” Sam pushes.

He nods, because he can’t bring himself to say yes. He wants this conversation to be done yesterday, cannot fathom how or why they’re still talking about it, when in reality, there might be nothing to talk about. Not with Cas’s wedding and his quiet little place in sunny California.

“He’s getting married.” It slips by his lips, and Dean swears that’s not what he was gonna say.

“Shit. That’s... Yeah, guess complicated actually explained it, huh” is all Sam says and Dean has to resist the temptation to gawk at him. There’s no tirade on how morally wrong this whole thing is. No passing judgment, no condemning stare.

“That’s it? That’s all you’re gonna say about it?”

“What do you want me to say?” Sam snorts a little. Dean hopes he can’t hear how fast his heart is beating, doesn’t know why it matters so much to him that Sam isn’t revolted by this, by him and Cas, that he isn’t flipping the proverbial shit.

“Look, I don’t know what you and Lisa have been doing, but you’ve been in Texas for months, Dean, and you have stopped mentioning going back to Kansas altogether. And I know you think I judge you for it, I know you do, but you’re wrong. Things just don’t work out sometimes; that’s just the way it is.”

And somebody must have stuck cotton balls in Dean’s mouth because it’s as dry as sand, and he struggles to swallow.

“What about Cas,” he dares, because this conversation has shattered every single expectation he had about it, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll get somebody else to tell him that this thing he and Cas are doing, that it’s not crazy, that it’s not wrong.

“I wish I knew what to tell you. I don’t know, Dean. Whatever it is that you two are doing here, he probably shouldn’t be doing it right before he gets married. So, there’s that.”

And yeah, Dean’s not surprised; that’s all he’s been telling himself for the past couple of days. His brain fabricating the vague and fuzzy picture of some California dude, thinking Cas is his and finding out Dean’s been putting his dirty paws all over him. He hates the dude and feels bad for him at the same time.

“But also, I dunno,” Sam keeps talking and there’s a flare like hope in Dean’s chest. “Like I said, you and Cas always had this big, unresolved, tension. Clearly you still do. It doesn’t feel great to be stuck in between the two of you, but maybe that’s even more reason for you to actually, I don’t know, light a match, set the whole thing on fire and then see what happens?”

“You really think so?” And he hates how shaky his words sound as he spits them out, a red light forcing him to stall, the engine a steady rumble under him.

“Look, I’m not saying it’s gonna end well, or that it’s fair to the other people involved. Cause it’s not. But I know you. I know we’ve had our differences, but you’re my brother and I know you. And the Dean I know wouldn’t be able to let this go without giving it an actual shot first. You’re an all-in kinda guy, always have been. And if you’re not all-in with your life with Lisa anymore, then maybe you’ll be with this.”

The light has turned green and Dean has yet to move, feet frozen where they lay on the pedals, hands stiff and heavy where they curl on the steering wheel.

All-in, fuck.

He chances a look at Sam, and he finds him looking back already, smiling small.

“I’ve missed you, bitch,” he says, and he wishes he could pretend his voice wasn’t thick and trembling, but the past day has apparently turned him into a girl who can’t control her emotions.

The car behind him honks, and he flips them off before speeding up.

Sam snickers next to him, but Dean hears it all the same when he mutters,“Jerk.”

When Dean finally hits the pillow that night, the only thought ringing in his head is “all-in”.

Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh, chapter 10 is finally done! I gotta say I'm glad I split it in two parts cause that was A LOT to get through, hopefully it was easier to read like this <3  
> I know action scenes aren't my forte, but this hunt was a way to put Dean back into a role he used to be very familiar with, and to show how much has actually changed, hope that makes sense!
> 
> Next chapter is also a huge one and a very intense one, I consider it the actual midpoint of this story, so get ready!
> 
> A lil warning: Real life has been kicking my butt so I *might* have to take a week off after I post chapter 11, just warning you guys so you don't get too mad at me ;) See you on Friday!
> 
> Do I even have to say it? Comments and kudos make my heart happy and I will love you forever if you decide to use your time to let me know what you thought of this. I will definitely be anxiously waiting! <3
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](https://flurryflair.tumblr.com/) !


	12. Magnolias pt.1 - Cas POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU GUYS. I am so excited to post this chapter, you wouldn't believe it!!!  
> This is the actual mid-way point of the story, a lot of really important stuff happens and I really really hope that it'll feel like sort of a reward for all the angst you put up with so far <3
> 
> IMPORTANT: This is where the fic's title will finally make sense; basically the whole thing was inspired by [ THIS SONG RIGHT HERE](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WdwnGG29Upw), which has always been one of my favorites and I highly recommend giving it a listen, maybe even while you read this. I know I listened to it about 100 times while writing this chapter ;) 
> 
> ALSO: I wasn't planning on it, but this week I changed this chapter up a bit and it got so long and so intense that I decided to split it like I did with chap 10. So next week you'll get Cas POV again, and I hope you won't mind too much!
> 
> ALSO; I did a lil art for this chapter, it'll be embedded at the end. I'm still very much not an artist but it was fun to make!
> 
> Okay, done with the notes, so here we go; the song, the flowers, and some happiness (and like, a lot of sex) <3
> 
> (big big thanks to my betas; [eyesofatragedy ](https://eyesofatragedy67.tumblr.com/) and [ tipofmemory ](https://tipofmemory.tumblr.com/) , and "honorary beta" [ huckleberrycas ](https://huckleberrycas.tumblr.com/) for the week, couldn't do this without you guys!)

Castiel has always considered himself to be quite the rational man. He often thinks it’s a leftover from his angelic days, this affinity for analytic thinking, the struggle of handling the onslaught and depth of human emotion.

It’s rationality that brought him to Evan, logic that made him say yes when he proposed; and that’s something he has been taking pride in for as long as he can remember.

So it doesn’t make any sense to him, when he gets to his hotel after the hunt, and his stomach is a knot of anxiety and distress.

Sam saw the two of them, he knows what they’ve been doing, how badly they have messed things up. He knows Sam to be a kind and open-minded man, but hoping for his approval on this would be nothing short of foolish.

And yet...

What if Sam didn’t mind; what if his silence wasn’t one of disapproval, but one of support? What would happen then?

Castiel can barely picture it, and what he does picture, opens a chasm in his chest that feels like it’ll swallow him whole if he’s not careful.

He and Dean, what they were doing together, it’s wrong, a secret, something that belongs in the shadows. Now that it’s uncovered there’s no more reason to go on, to keep on pretending they actually get to keep this.

Reason says he should be happy to have been discovered. That a higher power than him uncovered the mess he and Dean had plunged themselves into. He should be grateful for Sam and his ill-timed visit, because now it’s out of his hands. Now he doesn’t have to decide, doesn’t have to call on an uncooperative brain. The decision is made for him.

So he can’t find a reason why there’s a drumming in his chest, so strong and so loud he can feel it in his ears. Why his skin is buzzing all over, so much so that not even the scalding shower he takes manages to fix it.

He watches the water run muddy down the drain, a little pink and a little grey, and he wonders why his vision is so blurry. It must be the water crowding his eyes, because it’s definitely not tears. He’s a rational man, and a rational man wouldn’t cry over this.

A rational man would be grateful.

He wouldn’t take a pill in order to be able to sleep, wouldn’t cradle the gift of a past lover in his palm like a precious memory.

A rational man would not toss and turn all night, pain and anxiety coursing through his nerves so strongly not even pills bring him sleep.

He wouldn’t wake up with a throbbing head and an aching chest.

But maybe, just maybe, this is how Castiel finds out he is not a rational man after all.

His morning drags on slow and thick, minutes stretching into hours, leaving him exhausted. TV doesn’t entertain him. Evan avoids his calls, texts to say he’s too busy to talk; wedding plans and arrangements all blur together in his brain.

One hour is spent picturing what Sam told Dean once he left them alone in the car, wondering if he yelled or if his rage was a quiet one; wondering if Dean cowered in front of him or defended himself.

Another hour is spent pondering what would have happened had Sam not walked in on them; would Dean have kept kissing him until they were both dizzy with it? Or would he have gotten him off fast and hurried, arousal so thick he would have choked on it?

And what about after? Would Dean have taken him to bed? Spent the night at the hotel, or maybe at the cabin?  
He wonders what Dean looks like waking up under the mellow light of the woods.

A strange sense of loss curls up tight and cozy on his chest and refuses to leave, not even when he reasons that you can’t mourn something that you never even had.

He lays on his bed for a long time, feeling like he’s slowly sinking into it, phone laying just out of reach, pretending he’s not waiting for it to buzz and knowing that he is.

It’s Dean, eventually, who drags him out of the hole he’s dug for himself, with a call that’s just stilted enough to worry him, to make him wonder.

He tells himself this is it, steels himself for a blow that never actually comes.

Because when Dean finally shows up he’s smiling small, wearing a light green Henley that looks soft and worn, and all Castiel wants to do is get close enough to feel it for himself. Castiel watches him, the clean cut lines of his face, the gentle swell of his skin under his clothes as he leans over the reception counter, jokes with the receptionist, makes her laugh and blush, like she can barely handle to be the center of his attention. Castiel can’t blame her, he knows the feeling.

He walks up to them, keeps his hands stuffed in his pockets, clenched into fists, so he won’t reach out and slide them in the gentle curve of Dean’s spine.

But Dean smiles even bigger when he sees him, his lips tilting upwards and his body hitching a little, like he can’t help himself.

He doesn’t look like a man about to say goodbye and Castiel hates the swooping feeling of relief that washes over him.

They go out for drinks, have tacos over a rickety table at a food truck next to the road, the smell of weed wafting over them with every other breath. Dean leaves to pick up their order, and Castiel sits, ramrod straight and uncomfortable, wonders if second hand smoke can get him chilled and relaxed enough to get through the conversation he knows is coming. He wishes, with all he has, he was one of those students, joint lit carelessly between slack fingers, laughing and teasing like Castiel’s whole world isn’t about to implode.

“So, uh-” Dean says once there’s nothing left of their tacos but crumbs. “Twins’ birthday’s coming up; I told you about it.” Castiel nods. “I’ve gotta drive up to Lawrence next weekend, but, uh-” his eyes drop to the table for a moment; there’s a determined glint in them when he raises them back up. “That’s in like ten days, and I don’t gotta do much 'til then. The Warden order is almost good to go; so yeah, I’m- I’m all free for a bit.” He looks at Castiel meaningfully, eyebrows ticked up on his forehead in a silent question Castiel doesn’t know the answer to.

“I understand. You wish to move your trip up, leave for Lawrence sooner, so you can spend more time wi-” he guesses, because it’s the only guess that makes sense, so he pushes the words out through an unreasonably tight throat.

“Cas, no- I-” Dean sighs, head bent low like he’s shouldering the weight of the whole world. “I was gonna say we could, y’know, hang out a little, go on a trip maybe. There’s that lake I still haven’t showed you, and I just- we could spend some time, before I gotta leave.” He says the last part so quietly, Castiel has to shuffle forward a little in order to hear it.

“Yeah?” His mouth is dry when he says it

“Yeah,” Dean nods, a smile that’s more in his eyes than on his lips.

There’s a feeling of swooping warmth blooming in Castiel’s chest, hope and relief bubbling to the surface of his thoughts, until he’s buoyant with it.

It becomes clear then, that Castiel isn’t the rational man he always thought himself to be, but a selfish, reckless one. And he’s so happy with it he can’t even bring himself to care.

The evening is warm and sticky, and suddenly everything feels careless and light, like they have no responsibilities between the two of them. It’s a dangerous game of pretend, because it’s so, so easy to believe it. To make his reality all encapsulated in Dean’s eyes, wrapped in the circle of his arms.

There’s a big, unspoken thing between the two of them, an unavoidable expiration date lurking right out of the corner of his eye, but it seems like they’re both stuck waiting for the other to address it.

As it is, neither of them brings it up that night, or the next, or the five ones after that. Eventually it becomes sort of a tacit agreement between the two of them. Like as long as they pretend, as long as they don’t acknowledge it, it won’t really exist.

They don’t belong to each other, and yet they’re bound to want, to strain for the other, caught in a game of tug they can never win.  
And the burn is so painful, so delicious that Castiel can’t help but hope it will never end.

So Castiel indulges, like he never has before, like he never thought he would. Body and mind and soul so consumed by this one thing; telling himself it’s keeping him alive when in reality, he knows it’s killing him, slowly and sweetly, like the worst of addictions.

Dean is a gentle and unwavering force throughout it all, softer than Castiel has ever imagined him, his smiles frequent, sometimes blinding, sometimes small and gentle.

That week, Castiel learns the nuances of him, like Dean is the most interesting creature he’s ever met. He gets to see all the bits he used to keep hidden when they first met, or maybe Castiel wasn't paying enough attention back then to really see them.

Beer makes him chatty, whiskey makes him thoughtful and nostalgic, tequila makes him horny and silly and the purest incarnation of sin Castiel has ever seen.

There are moments of quiet and moments of laughter, moments of pain.  
They all take residence in a special corner of Castiel’s brain, like there’s a part of him that already knows how precious they are, how he’ll come back to them whenever he’ll think of Dean, weeks, months later.

The city blooms around them, bluebonnets growing everywhere - along the road, in the park, in a field Dean shows him one day, the road so quiet and empty behind them, flowers as far as the eye can see - and Castiel can pretend it’s just them, the bees, and the petals, blue and endless.

He kisses Dean then, throat choked, eyes prickling, and Dean’s eyes are greener than the grass in spring. They claw at each other, hands gripping and slipping, until a car speeds on the road and shatters the illusion.

And the flowers are still there, but they’re not for them only. And Dean is still in his arms, but he’s not his to keep.

The drive back home is silent that day.

Garth goes away for a few days to follow Sam on a hunt up north, leaves his cabin empty and tempting; Castiel can only pretend not to want it for so long, before he gives in, packs an overnight bag that feels heavier than it actually is, and drives his shiny rental through the dust of countryside once more.

Dean hugs him as soon as he steps inside the cabin, makes him leave his shoes next to his boots by the door, where they end up sitting for nearly four days, when Garth calls and announces he’s coming back.

It’s easy to forget that the outside exists, held tight within those dusty walls, with nobody coming to knock on their door. It’s easy to slip into the fantasy of it all, like a warm bath, head fuzzy and eyelids heavy.

It’s quiet there, really quiet, no cars and no people, a lot of deer and a few owls. Castiel’s phone has next to no reception and he lets the battery die over the weekend and can’t find it in himself to feel bad about it.

That’s the weekend he finds out for sure he’s not a good person, he doesn’t deserve Evan and the company they built, doesn’t deserve Dean and the soft way he looks at him from across the bed.

He takes it all anyways, hands outstretched, mouth parched and needy. Stores it all away in a dark place inside of him like a greedy animal. Holding out all the resources for when his soul will be tired and weary and will have forgotten what the sky in Texas looks like in spring.

Life outside of the two of them exists in the blurry tones of the past only, when Dean talks about his kids, mentions something silly they did, and love pours thick from his voice.  
He shows him pictures; of May, Jack, Ben and his soccer team. Of barbecues and birthday parties and family holidays.

For all the times he talks about his kids, he never really talks about his life in Lawrence, never about Lisa or his job, or all the little things that made up his suburban life. The life Castiel had always imagined being so perfect, pristine, filling all the needs in his soul, giving him everything he wanted, everything he deserved. His head finally laid down to rest.

He tells him so, one night in the cabin, with Dean’s arm heavy and a little sweaty on his bare back. “I thought you were happy; that’s why I never came looking for you. I didn’t want to ruin your plan. You didn’t deserve to have that burden- my burden. Not when you had already given so much. I didn’t think- I didn’t want you to have to worry about me.”

Dean’s hand stills where it was rubbing on his flank, his arm tightening on his waist.

“I never stopped worrying about you, Cas,” he says eventually, like it’s obvious, like Castiel should have known. He aches then, for all the missed words, all the misplaced assumptions. It feels like time wasted in a way, but how could it be? When it brought them here, together, warm under the duvet, legs tangled, lips tingling.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because there are other words in his mouth he really wishes he could say, but knows he can’t. Then Dean kisses him and he forgets about them until it’s morning again.

There are flowers blooming by their window when he wakes up one morning “They’re Magnolias,” Dean tells him when he catches him staring, “You like ‘em?” he asks and Castiel nods.

“They’re beautiful” he tells Dean, then kisses the teasing smirk right off of his lips.  
Kissing turns into lazy cuddling, and Castiel spends a considerable amount of time studying the swooping lines of the flowers while Dean dozes off again, peaceful and warm and curled into his side.  
The flowers sway in the wind, gentle and hypnotic, and Castiel feels like he’d float with them if he didn’t have the weight of Dean’s body anchoring him down.  
He wonders if this is what happiness feels like.

Later they move the bed to lay directly under the window. Dean complains the sun will wake them up in the morning; Castiel confesses there’s little else that he desires more than seeing him sleep-warm and mellow under the morning sun. Dean blushes all the way through moving the furniture and stops his protests.

When Castiel wakes up the next morning, Dean is gone, puttering around in the kitchen, and there’s a flower waiting for him on his pillow, white and fresh and laid there just for him.

He tells Dean how much he likes it, with his hands and with his mouth, and there’s a Magnolia on his pillow for every morning he wakes up in the cabin.

Still, there are moments when the guilt creeps in, unnoticed and quiet, waking him up in the middle of the night, a choking hold on his throat.  
He shuffles softly on the bed, careful not to wake Dean, his heat swelling two sizes when Dean instinctively chases his warmth.  
He takes a ratty hoodie from the dresser and pads quietly to the small patio outside; where it’s just crickets and frogs and stars so bright they make him feel less alone.

The breeze and the endless sky above him, Castiel sits and thinks. He thinks of the future, the one he signed up for, and the one he wants. He wonders when the two things have started to diverge.

It’s hard to tell time like that, the forest and the silence, so he’s not sure how long it is before he hears the quiet creaking of the patio door behind him.

“You gon’ catch a cold, dumbass,” Dean grumbles, voice rough and sleep heavy, “Scoot over,” and then he’s climbing in behind Cas, somehow fitting himself between Castiel’s body and the backrest. The bench creaks and sags like it’s gonna break and Castiel is about to point it out, but then there’s the soft pressure of Dean’s arms sneaking around his waist, wrapping a heavy blanket around them both.

“Sorry I woke you up” he croaks, resisting the urge to shiver when Dean buries his cold nose in his neck.

“ ‘s okay. Bed was cold,” Dean mumbles, settling ever closer. They’re silent for a beat, “You’re thinking real loud there, Cas.”

It’s hard to grab a thought from the swirling mess inside him, but he tries, for Dean. “Is it normal to feel guilty because you’re feeling happy?” he asks eventually, head pillowed on Dean’s shoulder, losing himself in the tapestry of stars above them.

Dean breathes in sharply. “Dunno ‘bout normal, Cas. Never been much of an example,” and his hand is now under Cas’s shirt, cupping his bare stomach just so. Cas feels its warm weight every time he breathes. “I just figure, there ain’t a lot of good things in life. So when you get one, you gotta hold on to it.” and he leaves a dry kiss on his cheek.

Cas’s eyes prickle, so he turns and hides his face in the crook of Dean’s neck, where he smells like sleep and all the good things Castiel knows he doesn’t deserve.

They kiss, and they kiss again, and the sky doesn’t seem that interesting when Dean’s lips are _right there_. They kiss until Castiel forgets about the future.  
“Let’s go inside” Dean says, all spit slick lips and wandering hands. Castiel can’t help but nod.

He lets Dean lay him down on the bed, can’t stop touching him as he crawls between his legs.  
“Please,” he says, and he doesn’t have to explain what he’s asking for.  
Dean opens him up with slow and careful fingers, sucking marks on the curve of hip bones in a way that makes Castiel lose his mind a little.

When Dean finally pushes inside him, it feels like he’s finally been caught; like he’s been running away all his life and he can now finally rest, because he has found his place.  
Laid under Dean Winchester, thighs around his waist, groin against belly, lips on lips.

Dean spreads over him, above him. A blanket of warmth that covers him from head to toe, and Cas looks into his eyes and he sees the Milky Way, glittering in the dark, guiding him.  
He lets himself be cradled by him, rocks into every move Dean makes, slow and deep and boundless.

They move together for a long time, long enough that night turns into dawn, until finally their pleasure crests over, a pleasure without a ceiling, that sweeps all over his body and he lets it.  
Dean kisses him all through it, and it’s like having his own pleasure echoed back to him.

_I love you_ , he thinks for the first time, but he doesn’t say it.

He falls asleep with the weight of Dean’s head right on his chest, and his last thought before he sleeps is that he’s never felt so secure as he does then, blanketed by this man who is so fiercely strong, and so innocently soft.

When it’s time to leave the cabin, Castiel finds it harder than he anticipated, doubt and nostalgia weighing on his every step, all the way from the bed to the car.

Until he climbs in and there’s a flower sitting on the dashboard, white petals curling gently on themselves. It’s light and silky in his hands, he cradles it as gently as he can, picturing the way Dean’s hands looked when he picked it just for him.

“Thank you,” he says when Dean gets in, and the smile he gets in return warms him all the way back to the hotel.

-

The next time he sees Dean it’s just a day later; Dean stays at the hotel overnight, in what becomes an unplanned and delightful indulgence of an evening, one that will be cherished in Castiel’s memories like a precious snapshot.

Because that night Dean’s boxers end up ruined and he has to borrow a pair from him, and Castiel doesn’t really stop to think before he grabs a pair he knows he never used. They’re these light gray silk boxers, that he has never worn because they’re a size too small on him. And it turns out they’re a size too small on Dean too, and Dean certainly doesn’t look like he minds.

He moves like a vixen in them, all fluid muscle and shimmying hips, every movement tinted with the glee of a knowing tease.

He doesn’t even bother with a shirt, just lounges around the room, flipping through the channels, waiting for room service. Splayed over the covers like a siren on the rocks, running his palms over the fabric when he thinks Castiel isn’t looking.

“You’re beautiful,” Cas tells him that night, a hand cupped warm on his cheek, because he is and he deserves to know, and Castiel doesn’t know where to hide the words anymore.

Dean blushes but doesn’t argue, his eyes downcast like he’s shy all of a sudden, like he doesn’t know how to handle being touched so gently, but he’s trying.

“I like you in those,” Castiel says then, feeling daring.

He expects a retort, but Dean just blushes even deeper; it spreads from his cheeks to his chest, and Castiel can almost feel the heat of him.  
“I like ‘em too,” Dean whispers, eyes downcast but mouth curving in a shy smile, like he can’t really believe he’s letting himself say that.

And Castiel will never even come close to unraveling the mystery that is this man, but God does he want to. Wants to peel all his layers off, see what’s under the bravado and the smirks, see the lovely soul he is beneath it all.  
It feels like there would always be more for him to discover, no matter how much time he spent studying him.  
But he has no time. So he doesn’t say any of that.

There are freckles on the inside of Dean’s thighs, barely peeking out from where the boxers are riding up his legs. He slides a hand slow up from his calf all the way up to where thigh meets groin, where Dean is hot and velvet-soft and straining for him. Follows his hand with his mouth, and the moans he draws out of Dean that night are the softest and most erotic he’s ever heard.

“Will you stop looking at me like that?” he asks Dean, hours later, feeling his gaze hot at the back of his neck.

“Like what?”

“Like- I don’t know, like you want more,” he tells him, because Dean’s gaze is mellow and sensual on him, a half-lidded stare that would arouse him all over again, had he not just come mere minutes before.

Dean snickers a little, bites his lip in a way that shouldn’t seem endearing on a forty year old man, but somehow is. “Maybe it’s cause I do- Want more,” he rasps, voice still scratchy from when Castiel was rutting deep in his throat.

It’s that night he finally knows what it feels like to be wanted and to want, to be an active participant in the most thrilling game of hide and seek, where he hides only to be found, discovered all over again.

-

One day, near the end of their “ten days of freedom”, as Castiel has begun to secretly call them in his head, Dean drags him to see the latest superhero movie, even though he knows nothing about it. Shows up at his room door, IMAX tickets in hand, shameless grin on his face; and Castiel really should get to the mounting number of unread emails in his inbox, but how can he say no to that? How can he consciously reject time with Dean when he knows how tentative it all is, how there’s an expiration date on it all.

“Biggest screen in Texas, baby,” Dean tells him once they find their seats, lips shiny around a mouthful of popcorn, his joy childish and endearing in a way that makes Castiel happily bear through over two hours of people shooting each other into space and traveling to parallel dimensions.

He can’t say he minds, not when Dean keeps leaning over the arm rest to whisper in his ear, telling him all about who is who and what powers they have and why it’s okay for them to time travel. Castiel still doesn’t understand half of it, but he’s okay with that.

Dean tears up at the end, even though he tries to be subtle about it, sniffling quiet right next to him. Castiel offers him a napkin, then hooks his arm around him, lets him lean over a little bit; and it feels like such a privilege, to witness this one tiny moment of vulnerability, that he’s glad he’s given up on everything else he had to do today.

Their arms stay hooked together as they leave the theater, shoulders pressed tight against one another, the contact making him giddy like the teenager he never was.

It's when they're laying in bed that night, sweat drying salty on their skin, that Dean asks him.  
“Do you think parallel universes exist for real?” He spits it out, like the question matters, like it’s been brewing in him for a while.

Castiel lets it sit, gives it the gravity it deserves.

“I don’t know. Not for sure.” Dean deflates a little beside him and it feels like the wrong answer.  
“Technically, though, He- God could have done it, I think. I believe we wouldn’t know about it if that were the case, though.” Dean is still silent, pensive. “I’m sorry I can’t give you a better answer,” Castiel whispers, because it feels as if he’s disappointing Dean, and he loathes the feeling.

Dean just shuffles closer, head nestled in the crook of his neck, hair tickling his chin a little, but he doesn’t dare to move, doesn’t dare to tell him.

When Dean speaks again his voice is soft, muffled into Castiel’s own chest.  
"Do you- do you think, maybe, in one of those parallel universes. If they existed for real. That maybe there's one where we, I dunno, meet different. At the right time or whatever, and we- And things work out?" Dean says it to the darkness, voice hoarse and strained, whole body tense, a subtle tremble running through the length of him.  
“Fuck, never mind. This- this is stupid.” And he’s pulling away, the heat on his skin giving away a blush that Castiel can’t see. “Fuckin’ sappy bitch I turned into.”

Castiel aches for him, wants to scoop him up and fit him inside his own body, keep him to himself like a secret, and never let him go. He settles for sliding closer, dragging him near once more, hands settling on Dean’s jaw, bringing them face to face, his clammy hand cold on Dean's overheated cheek. He's silent and staring for a beat, and Dean squirms under his gaze, eyes liquid and sad.

"I like to believe so," he says eventually, thumb stroking Dean's skin tender and slow, and the words feel heavy in the silence.

This is as close as they ever get to talking about it, and it hurts just as much as Castiel feared.

"Good," Dean whispers, a tiny, broken thing, right in the bow of Castiel’s lips. And there are tears prickling behind his eyes, so he shuts them.

The kiss Dean leaves on his lips then is so soft it might not even have been there, before he buries his face in the warm crook of Cas’s neck again, burrowing his body into him, soaking up all the comfort he can.

He falls asleep like that, with Dean wrapped around him like a vine, like he can never let him go.

When he wakes up, he's gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay, I KNOW, last line was kinda mean, but I wanted to remind you guys this still an angsty fic ;)
> 
> I honestly am a little emotional posting this; I care about this chapter a lot, I have worked on it probably more than any other chapter in this fic, and I'm keeping my fingers crossed that the emotions I wanted to convey actually got through to you.
> 
> Next chapter is going to be a rough one, that's one of the main reasons why I split it, I wanted all the good stuff to have its moment to shine. So you guys just soak this up and get ready for the angst wave to come back next Friday <3
> 
> THANK YOU to everyone who has read/kudos-ed/reblogged/commented so far, your support week after week is giving me all the motivation I need to make this story the best it can be, and this week especially I really look forward to hear what everyone thought <3 If you decide to let me know, you'll seriously be in my heart forever!


	13. Magnolias pt.2 - Cas POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go, part 2 of chapter 11, still Cas POV, but this time it'll be all angsty!! So get ready!! (and don't be too mad at me <3 <3 <3)
> 
> I know you're just dying to get into the angst of it all so here, a Wednesday, some more flowers, and life generally being a mess.
> 
> Also kudos to my betas for this chapter [eyesofatragedy ](https://eyesofatragedy67.tumblr.com/) and [ tipofmemory ](https://tipofmemory.tumblr.com/) , and [ huckleberrycas ](https://huckleberrycas.tumblr.com/) <3

Sometimes, when things start to unravel, there is a warning, a series of clues that could have brought you to the conclusion before it smacked you in the face full force. Castiel either missed the signs or he’s the exception to the rule.

Because when everything starts falling apart around him, it does so in a spectacle of an explosion, and he’s caught right in the middle, unsuspecting, powerless to stop any of it.

It happens on a Wednesday, on a day that’s unremarkable as it goes, because of course it does.

The day starts off almost normally. He wakes up alone, and there’s a cold spot on his chest that has the exact shape of Dean’s head. Something tender thrums inside of him, right in the hollow between his sternum and his throat; thinking of the way Dean looked the night before, his soul stripped bare and unguarded, twined around Cas’s body like a vine, asking about what-ifs and all the other impossible things he can’t stop himself from wanting. Castiel knows if he still had the power to paint galaxies into life, he’d use them right now, just so Dean Winchester could look up at the sky and picture a life where they both get what they want.

He rolls over, chasing the lingering warmth Dean’s body left behind, his scent on the pillow. He wonders what’ll happen when their days together come to an end and the memory of his scent will have faded away altogether.

When his face turns, it lands on something crisp and crinkly laying on the pillow.  
Finally forcing his eyes to open, he finds himself staring at a small crumpled paper - a note, he realizes.  
Dean’s handwriting is messy and yet surprisingly clear, Castiel traces the words with his finger.

_Got a bunch of appointments today, sorry._   
_Let’s go to the lake tomorrow, pack COMFY clothes, I’ll get the rest._   
_-D_

And the ache in his chest eases just a little at the knowledge that Dean is gone for now, but he’s coming back to him, soon. There’s something else scribbled at the bottom, smaller than everything else. Small enough that Castiel needs to squint.

_PS: you look good when you sleep_

He doesn’t want to smile, but he does. He pictures Dean slipping quietly out of his arms, crouching over the bedside table to write him the note, to make sure he wouldn’t feel alone. He wonders if he smiled, if he felt that same warmth deep in his belly that Cas feels whenever he gets to look at Dean when he’s soft and unguarded.

He thinks a strange thought, all of a sudden, that maybe this longing for Dean was there even before he became human, he just didn’t know it yet. Like his human soul was shaped around the few things that were dear to him as an angel. And nothing has ever been more important to him than Dean Winchester.  
If he had a crack in his chassis as an angel, it had become a splintered fracture by the time he was made mortal. His yearning for Dean is something that predates his human existence, and Castiel figures that should count for something.  
It feels primal, this need he has for him, like it’s woven into the spirals of his DNA, sunk deep into the flashes of his neural connections. Like he couldn’t stop wanting Dean anymore than he could will his lungs to stop breathing.  
So when he falls into him, over and over again, it feels like fate finally fulfilled; every kiss Dean leaves on his lips is a promise kept, a prophecy coming true.

He’s not going to second guess it, he decides, at least not for the short time they have left together. He’s gonna dress comfy, like Dean said, maybe steal one of his shirts that are always soft and worn and smell like him. They’re gonna drive to the lake and Dean will have that awed look on his face he gets every time he looks at the water. Castiel is going to stare at his profile until Dean blushes and he’s gonna hold his hand when nobody can see.  
He can get through today, knowing tomorrow is going to be a good day.

It’s barely past 10 am when he discovers how wrong he was.

Erin calls him, demands he meets with her, or she will officially consider herself to be out of the wedding planning. And there’s nothing more that Castiel wants than to tell her she’s welcome to forever disappear from his life, and take the whole wedding debacle with her while she’s at it too, but he doesn’t.

He crumples it all in one tiny box he slams closed in a dark corner of his mind and pretends it’s enough.  
It’s so crowded inside of him, with all the words he’s not letting himself say, he’s surprised he doesn’t blurt them all out as soon as he sees her.

Erin is waiting for him at the reception desk when he makes it downstairs, bright red nail polish tapping impatiently on the counter as she talks with the concierge.

Her mouth barely upturns at the corners once she spots him, and he wonders why they even bother pretending to like each other at this point.

He pictures every Christmas and Thanksgiving in her spotless, cold hunk of a house, his hand in Evan’s as they exchange plesantries with the whole family, and his stomach flips in an unpleasant manner.

He pushes that down too.

“You don’t happen to know any good catering services in town, do you?” she’s asking Lana, the hotel manager, when he finally walks up to the counter.

“Castiel here is dragging his feet about the whole thing, and my brother seems to think he’s too busy to deal with the details of his own wedding.” She sighs, not even masking her jab, not acknowledging his arrival with anything more than a side glance.

“I’m afraid Evan is the people person and I am the details person in this team,” he says, the words thick and barbed through his teeth, nodding at her and Lana both, hoping against hope he looks calmer than he feels.

Lana lights up a little. “Oh, I hope you don’t mind me saying, but your fiance definitely seems the type to charm his way out of wedding planning,” she says, and then honest to God _giggles_.

The frown on Erin’s face deepens, shadows ringing her otherwise immaculate face, then smoothing out in an even more frightening display of surprise.

There’s no air in Castiel’s lungs, no air in the whole room, and he suddenly has the urge to jump over the counter and tackle Lana and her good intentions down to the ground.

“You’ve met my brother then?” Erin asks without missing a beat, her voice a knife.

“Oh, yes, quite the charmer that one! I do have a couple of suggestions I think you guys might find interesting. I can email Mr. Novak here some options, if that’s okay with you. I bet your wedding will be beautiful,” she says, a smile on her lips, like nothing happened, like she hasn’t just shattered the illusion that kept them all safe.

“Yes, that would-”

“Won’t be necessary; have a good day,” Erin interrupts him, fingers curled around his forearm like claws, heels already clicking away.

He doesn’t really have time to see the look of surprise on Lana’s face, but he knows it’s there. He doesn’t have the time to feel bad for her either; he just follows Erin, silent, brain whirring to come up with some explanation that will make sense.

She waits until they are in the safe confines of her SUV. “What was that woman talking about?” she asks, the car door slamming closed with a click that feels like a lid being lowered on a casket. “Is this about that guy? That- _grease_ _monkey_ who’s been buzzing around you since the moment you landed here; it’s him, isn’t it?”

Anger bubbles in his gut, because who is she to judge, perched on her little pedestal made out of privilege and money she hasn’t earned a single cent of.

He swallows it down.

“His name is _Dean_. He is an old friend I happened to run into, and he- he has come visit me a couple of times, that’s all. It’s a mere misunderstanding, Erin,” he says, and he’s almost proud of the way his voice only shakes a little.

“You expect me to believe that?” she scoffs. “I knew there was something wrong with you, hanging on my brother, sucking up all his money without lifting a finger. And now what, cheating on him too? In a hotel he’s paying for?”

“We have a joint account,” he mumbles, bile making his mouth and his words bitter.

“Don’t change the topic, Castiel,” she snaps. “Do you think my brother would be pleased knowing you’ve been letting people in your room like a revolving door? You think he’d keep paying for your little stunt?” Her eyes are shooting daggers at him, her fram shaking with the sheer force of her self-righteous anger.

“Erin- You know I will always be grateful to Evan for everything he did for me. I would never do anything to hurt him. I, uh, I lo- I care about him.”

“So if I asked Evan about this guy, he would know everything about him, right? Since it’s all so innocent,” she snipes, and Castiel stammers.

“Evan is very busy right now. And he doesn’t like to talk about my life- how my life was before we met.” Which is true; Evan will go to extreme lengths to avoid acknowledging the fact that Castiel dragged himself up from the very bottom of society.

“When you were a hobo, you mean. Let’s call a spade a spade, Castiel.” And her eyes are so cold he shivers.

“I was homeless for a while, yes,” he replies, mustering all the pride he possibly can, because of all the things he feels shame for, carving himself a place in society from nothing, is not one of them. “I’m not ashamed of it, Erin; I simply didn’t wish to burden Evan with the baggage of my past. Dean is a part of that past, and that’s all he’ll ever be to me. Evan is- he’s where my future is.” He hopes it doesn’t sound as pained and stilted as he feels, because then he’ll be doomed.

It’s the ultimate betrayal, he thinks; he has betrayed Evan, deceived Erin, and now he’s disappointing Dean too. Whoever he touches, he’s destined to fail them.

In the end she doesn’t really look convinced, looks at him with judgment and disapproval dripping from her eyes. She still hasn’t started the car, still clutching her phone like a weapon pointed to his temple.

“We can’t cancel with the flower place; you booked this appointment, what, two weeks ago?” he says, stroking her ego and feeling like a fraud all the while.

He almost hopes she won’t fall for it and will actually call Evan, blow a hurricane into the castle of cards he’s built, run it all to the ground, leave him with no choice but to walk away.

There’s a tense moment where she just looks at him, like she’s balancing his words on the tip of a forked tongue.

“Blood’s thicker than water, that’s not just a saying to me. I love my brother, Castiel, and I will protect him; just remember that,” she says, and then she starts the car. The cards are still standing, and Castiel still reigns over his little kingdom of lies.

They don’t talk about it for the rest of the day, and Castiel seethes and shakes all the way through the short and traffic-heavy drive to a florist just outside of the city limits.  
His shirt sticks to his skin where he’s sweating too much, and Erin’s gaze is pointed when she suggests he keeps his jacket on as they walk in the shop.

The overly sweet smell is what hits him first, before the cluttered array of colors overwhelms his eyes too. Erin seems to feel like she’s in charge of all the talking for the day, and for once Castiel is grateful. He just smiles and nods whenever it feels like he needs to and he tries to keep his mind as empty and calm as he can. Thinks of the lake and how it’s just a few hours away and he lets his eyes wander.

There are magnolias sitting in a beautiful arrangement in the corner, white and unblemished. He can’t help but look at them, nostalgia crawling sneaky in his throat, and he almost wishes he could forget the way Dean looked under the morning light of the cabin.

“Oh, those are beautiful, aren’t they? Very romantic,” the woman behind the counter says, smiling. “I’m not sure if I’d suggest them for a wedding, though; they tend to die very fast once they’re cut from their tree. It’s up to you, though.” She slides the vase in front of him.

He touches the petals with his fingertips, thinking of the flower now withering on the dresser of his hotel room.

“Those won’t do, thank you,” Erin says, pushing the vase back.

He thinks he’s never felt as small as he feels right then, standing in a flower shop that’s too bright and sweet smelling, with a woman who would like nothing more than to wipe him from her life, like an annoying speck of dust.

It’s hard to believe he was fooling himself with thoughts of happiness mere days, hours before.

He ends up nodding and agreeing with anything Erin picks, his mask tight-lipped and strained, feeling like he’s going to suffocate.

\---

Anger-fueled and shaking, Castiel drives to Dean’s workshop that evening, and when he gets out of the car he barely remembers the drive.

He tells himself that he’ll be fine once he sees Dean. Dean will make it okay. He only needs to find him and everything will be fine. He just needs to be close to him again, to remember how good it feels when the two of them are together, to remember how it’s worth everything. He can lose everything as long as he has Dean, and he just has to remember that.

He pushes through the workshop door, body tensing in anticipation of finally getting what it so badly craves.

But Dean’s on the phone when he finally finds him. Leg bouncing up and down where he’s sitting, frown so deep on his face it changes the shape of his eyes.

He barely looks up when he registers Castiel’s presence; he doesn’t smile, and Castiel’s heart leaks out of the bottom of his shoes, silent and staining the wooden planks red.

“Yeah, no, I get it; I get it. It’s not like I want him to miss it. It’s just- I still have stuff to do here, Lis, got- unfinished business,” he says, and he looks right at Castiel then; his gaze pierces him, and it aches where it lands, an unforgiving cold sweeping all over him.

He wishes he could hear the other side of the conversation, but it all sounds like metallic gibberish from where he’s standing, crestfallen.

Dean is silent, listening, looking at Castiel, leg still bouncing away.

“Okay, I mean if there’s no other solution-” he starts again, voice tired. “Yeah, that’s fine, I’ll be there. I promise,” he says, and his eyes fall on the floor.

He talks some more, voice hushed but sincere, and Castiel can’t follow it anymore. Because he knows who’s on the other line, knows the vague shape of her face and the sound of her laughter, because they haunt his dreams.

Just like that, in the dusty space of the workshop, on a Wednesday like any other, Lisa becomes a real person to him. Someone who lives and breathes and loves Dean as much as he does.  
Someone who has chosen to intertwine her life with Dean’s in such a way that they’ll never really be separated, not by chance, not by fate, not by Castiel’s misplaced affections.

By the time Dean clicks the call shut, there’s no more air in Castiel’s lungs to ask him what it all means.

“Ben has a game next Sunday, so Lisa’s moving the twins’ birthday to this Saturday instead,” Dean finally says, standing to face him, and his voice sounds empty, like he’s got no fight left in him.

“But- That means...”

“Yeah, I should, uh, leave tomorrow. Friday at the latest.” Dean isn’t even looking at him when he says it.

Castiel’s breath crumples to the floor, and he feels like the gravity in the room has all been sucked out, like there’s nothing keeping him anchored to the floor but the swirling, tempestuous weight in his gut.

It’s as if everything is crashing to the ground all at the same time, the castle is collapsing over his head and he has no hope of escaping alive.

And the strange thing is, it doesn’t even feel real, doesn’t really register on the same domain where he and Dean have lived all week long.

His hands are shaking a little, eyes prickling with tears he has no right to shed. Because they always knew it would end like this, because he always knew Dean wasn’t his to keep.

“Cas, it’s okay. Look at me,” Dean says, shuffling closer, sincere and understanding.

Suddenly his need for him is a live thing, thrumming in his veins, screaming in his head, like the only way for him out of this is clutched to Dean.

He’s finally startled into motion; walks up to Dean and pushes against him, right into one of the tables, tools rattling as they fall to the floor, and he couldn’t care any less.

“Cas- What the- Fuck...”

“I need you,” he breathes into the curve of Dean’s neck. “Dean, please,” and he isn’t sure what he’s asking for, but Dean seems to understand anyway; lets him push him around, slip him out of his clothes and onto the table.

The simple sight of Dean, eyes sad and patient, body splayed in front of him like it’s at his mercy, wrecks him a little. Because Dean is a warm, rippling, tanned expanse of skin and muscle, and if Castiel had ever doubted the animalistic nature of humans, he doesn’t now. Not when every cell in his body seems to scream for Dean, his skin, his scent, the spit-slick drag of his lips as they fall open around a moan.

The table creaks a little when he climbs over Dean’s lap, fishing a packet of lube and condom out of his own pants, before carelessly dropping them on the floor, then reaching behind him, to open himself up as fast as he possibly can.

The sound of Dean’s stilted breaths is loud in the large workshop; his moans reverberate from wall to wall, shameless and obscene. It turns Castiel on more than he ever knew possible.  
He watches as Dean’s large hands fumble with the wrapper of the condom he tosses him, as they pop open his jeans and reach between his legs, where he’s hard and leaking and needing.  
It feels as if every second he’s not spending with Dean’s cock inside of him is a second he’s wasting, so he climbs on him, barely stretched enough to take him inside. The burn is delicious, and Dean’s broken moan is an irresistible call he can’t help but answer.

“Cas,” Dean says, over and over, sweat beading on his forehead, making his chest slippery where Castiel’s hands are clawing, for a claim or for support.

He looks like he wants to ask questions, like he needs answers Castiel doesn’t even have for himself.

Castiel doesn’t say anything. He knows if he starts talking, he'll say things he can’t say. So he stays silent and slams his body down, over and over, rides Dean into the table, hard and fast and rough until Dean is hopeless and keening beneath him, can’t do anything but take it.

Until his thighs burn and his knees ache; until there are red marks all over Dean’s chest, and he’s shouting and moaning and clutching Castiel’s hips so hard his hands will probably leave a bruise.

Until Dean is shaking under him, eyes shut tight and mouth pleading; and he’s coming, back arching off the dusty table, throat exposed as he slams his head backwards, mouth open in a silent scream.

The sight of him - breath rattling in his chest, clothes askew, soaked in sweat, skin marked by Castiel’s own hands - is so erotic that Castiel thinks it cannot possibly be wrong.

There cannot possibly be anything wrong about this, about the way his chest burns whenever he breathes, about the way his mouth feels like the desert and Dean’s mouth feels like spring water. There can’t be anything wrong in straddling Dean Winchester’s lap, naked from the waist down, with his softening cock still inside, with his forest green eyes glued to Castiel’s as his hand speeds up on his own dick, as he makes himself come all over the mess of freckles under him.

There can’t possibly be anything wrong about the way he feels right now, the way he feels for Dean.

He breaks a little then, something inside him snapping, all his anger rushing out of him with his orgasm. He lays there, an empty vessel of flesh and blood and nothing more. There’s wetness leaking from his eyes, and his head is spinning and he can’t stop it. He doesn’t fight it when Dean sits up, readjusts them both on the table so that he’s holding Castiel in his lap, soothing hands rubbing up and down his spine, rumbling whispers floating in his ears, filling the aching cave in his chest.

The closeness, the sweetness, Dean’s own body as it wraps around his own, lets him in, it would have been enough any other day.

But it isn’t now, not anymore.

Castiel clings to him and weeps like he hasn’t before, like he has no control left over his emotions as they all come pouring down his cheeks. He can’t even picture how pathetic he looks, how disgusted Dean must be, but Dean only hugs him tighter, only kisses him deeper, slower.

Rocks his naked body until it feels like there are no tears left to cry and all that holds him up are Dean’s arms around him.

“Cas, it’ll be okay. You’ll be okay,” Dean murmurs in the crook of his neck, like if he says it enough times it’ll become true.

It takes them a long time to untangle from each other, bodies sticky and heavy. Dean cleans them both up, like he usually does, and every tender swipe of his fingers now burns on Castiel’s skin.

He keeps his eyes on the ground, because they feel dry and empty, and he doesn’t want to see what’s written on Dean’s face.

Of course Dean doesn’t let him hide for long; fits a finger under his chin and forces him to look up. Then he kisses him soft and gentle, so distant from the frenzied assault of just minutes before.

In the span of the same shuddering breath he knows, with glaring certainty, inevitability; he’s kissing the man he loves, and he’s the same man who’ll break his heart, rip it to sheds until all that’s left is bloodied dust.

He lets the riptide drag him under nonetheless.

Dean’s eyes are clear when Cas finally meets them.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Dean says, and Castiel doesn’t believe him.

It all feels like a lie.

It feels like an ending.

He pretends he doesn’t know it, leans on Dean when he makes space for him between his arms, and they hold each other up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'M SORRY
> 
> I know this chapter might have been hard to read, especially right after the "happy bubble" of last week. It's important to remind the boys that there still a real life outside the two of them, and that they gotta deal with that at some point.  
> I also want to mention that some choices the boys will make from here on out, might not be easily relatable. I'm aware of that and I'm aware I'm writing about very much flawed people who are bound to make mistakes that are hard to empathize with. I can just promise I will try my best to provide reasons for every choice they make and that it'll all be worth it in the end <3
> 
> THANK YOU to everyone who has been following this story in some way, I really felt the love last week and I'm so so grateful for all of you guys <3 This probably falls under "TMI", but my country, Italy, has been placed in lockdown and we all feel like we're living in a bad dystopian novel right now; having this fic to distract myself from things and being able to interact with all of you means a whole lot, now more than ever!
> 
> Would love to hear what you guys thought of this chapter, next week we'll get back to Dean's POV (a little less angst)


	14. Nyquil & coffee - Dean POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys <3 I know last chapter was super rough, and I wanna thank everyone for their support and trust, I promise the boys *will* get to their happy ending, we just gotta get past some rocky stuff first.
> 
> So here it is; Nyquil, coffee and a lazy day ;)  
> ((((but there's also angst I'm sorry <3 <3 <3))))
> 
> Big thanks to [eyesofatragedy ](https://eyesofatragedy67.tumblr.com/) and [ tipofmemory ](https://tipofmemory.tumblr.com/) , and [ huckleberrycas ](https://huckleberrycas.tumblr.com/) for their work on this chapter <3

Dean is a practical man, has always considered himself to be such, since he was a child playing the role of a father he still needed. He’s never complained about having to put his feelings aside, never resented it, just accepted it for the necessity it was. You don’t fight an Apocalypse and come out on the other side without sacrificing a few things along the way; that’s just the way it is, and deep in his bones, he knows it.

So for the life of him, he cannot understand why it’s suddenly so hard to just get on with it. Pack his bag and throw it in the truck; drive to Lawrence without looking back. Can’t explain the suffocating weight in his gut and his throat, like if he stops blinking for just one moment, there’ll be tears rolling down his face.

He’s not sure what to do with all of that, not sure what to even call it, or if giving it a name would somehow make it more real than it already is.

He supposes he’s forgotten along the way, started wanting things that are for himself only, without having to ask _please_ and say _thank you._  
 _T_ his whole thing with Cas feels like something he’s not supposed to have, something he can never come to deserve, and he’s tired of it all. Tired of saying it’s fine, that’s just how things are. Tired of pretending he’s okay with it, that there aren’t places inside him that are cold and drafty and _ache_ all the fuckin’ time.

And Cas’s hands are always so warm, so big, it’s like they cradle him, reaching to cover all the chilly spots of him until he finally starts thawing; until he starts thinking that this is nice, and maybe he can keep it. Sloppy with it the way you get sleepy curled in front of a fireplace, the air thick and heavy and so hot on your face. Knowing you can fall asleep and you’ll wake up safe in the exact same spot, the fire crackling and watching over you all throughout.

How is he supposed to walk away from it all? He doesn’t think he can, not anymore.

Maybe it’s age. Maybe it’s the fact that the aches and pains ain’t getting better anymore. That if he’s not at the twilight of his life, he can at least see the sky changing into pinks and oranges on the horizon.

There’s selfishness rising all the way inside him, like he wants this one thing for himself, wants it bad, more than he has let himself want anything else in a long time.

There are clothes in his hands; he folds them carefully, doesn’t pack more than he’ll need for three days, doesn’t give himself the chance of not having to come back here. Even if it’s just to say goodbye.

The twins’ birthday was the non-official date he and Lisa had set for this whole “take a break and decide where we stand” thing. They both thought they would have come to a conclusion by now, one way or the other, and Dean knows Lisa will have kept his side of the closet empty, just in case he shows up with all his belongings and moves right back in.

He doesn’t think he’ll be doing that, definitely not this weekend, and maybe not anytime soon. Because if he can want another person so bad his whole body feels incensed at the mere thought of them, then maybe he oughta man up and admit the suburban life isn’t doing it for him anymore.

It cuts off his breath mid-heartbeat when he thinks about it, not going back, not falling asleep with the twins curled on his chest, heavy and sticky and _his_.

If his father were still around to kick his ass, he’d tell him he was dumb enough to put himself into a situation he cannot possibly win. Because no matter what he does, there’s still going to be loss, and it’s still going to hurt the people around him.

He only hopes that when the time comes, he can bear it.

He doesn’t even know where Cas stands on this, not really. He thinks he does, sometimes, when it’s late and Cas catches his eye from across the room and smiles a little crooked smile that feels like a promise.

It’s easy to forget that Cas’s technically still engaged. That he’s been planning a wedding this whole time, even though he has stopped talking about it. Hasn’t mentioned anything about it the whole past week, his smiles so bright, and his hands so lovely and on him all the time.

And Dean has let him do it, has let himself indulge, like a child on Christmas morning. Gorging on Cas’s attention, his lust, the way he burrows into him and _takes_ , like Dean’s an everlasting spring of everything he desires, not the barren and selfish bastard he knows himself to be.

The past few days together almost seem like they’ve taken place in an alternate reality. One where neither of them was burdened by the past they shared together, or by the futures they have promised other people.

Dean can feel himself wanting to indulge in it a little bit, picturing a whole album of what-ifs and scenarios he knows will never come to life.

Because Cas looked like a man possessed the last time they saw each other. Disheveled and unraveled more than Dean had ever seen him, more than he ever wants to see him.  
He told him everything would be okay, and he knows Cas didn’t believe him.

That had been yesterday, and Dean wants nothing more than to move on, or backwards, just a few days. To find that balance they had somehow achieved so effortlessly and that now seems fake, impossible.

He’d been excited about today. Had been secretly planning it for a while; taking Cas and packing him into his truck, driving together; the music and the wind, and the weight of Cas’s palm on his thigh. He’d even gone out and bought a blanket they could sit on, because he remembers the grimace on Cas’s face when he had tried to make him lay down in the grass at the park.

It’s a bit like chasing a ghost of a feeling, trying so desperately to recapture the way Cas had looked at him, standing by a sea of flowers the same color as his eyes, looking like he wanted to wrap himself around Dean and never let him go.

There are two bags on Dean’s bed, one for Lawrence, one for today’s trip with Cas.

He packs for the day on one side, and packs for Lawrence on the other. By the time he’s done, it feels like he’s packed to say goodbye twice.

Lisa calls him as he’s getting in the car, asks him if he’s driving out today, if he wants to stay a day longer, at least make a long weekend out of it. The kids are on a field trip, but it could be the two of them, they could talk. She sounds hopeful, she sounds like she wants to see him.

Hands curled around the steering wheel, Dean thinks about it. Considers driving all the way to Kansas right then and letting the dust settle on whatever mess he’s made of things here.

It lasts the pace of two heartbeats, and then it’s gone - he’s telling Lisa he can’t, he has things to finish here, he’ll drive out late tonight. Maybe early tomorrow.  
It depends on how sad Cas looks when he tries to leave, but he doesn’t tell her that.

The sigh she huffs through the phone sounds more resigned than angry, and Dean feels every bit the piece of shit he is.

Then he thinks of Cas, the way his eyes went wide in terror when he thought Dean was leaving; the scratches he left on his chest, as if he was trying to make himself a home inside Dean’s body. Thinks of the way he looked under the sunset sky, how he doesn’t even have a picture of him, and he knows there’s no way he’s spending today any other way than plastered to Cas’s side, pathetic and needy like he is.

He drives to the hotel, anticipation and guilt bubbling together in his gut, picturing the smile on Cas’s face as he lets himself in.

As with most things lately, it doesn’t exactly happen like that.

When he finally gets in with Cas’s spare room key, Dean finds him curled on the couch, thick comforter pulled from the bed and wrapped tightly around his shoulders. His head is peeking out of the makeshift nest of covers and pillows, and his face looks rough, deep shadows under his eyes, skin pale and clammy-looking.

“Dean, hey,” he says, lips curling in a smile and eyes softening a little as they settle on him. His voice is scratchy and even deeper than usual.

Dean walks up to him carefully, like he’s approaching a spooked cat. He’s still holding the bag with the food and supplies for their day out, and he has a feeling he won’t actually get to use any of it.

“Hey, you don’t look so good man,” he says once he’s close enough to the couch and can see that all Castiel’s wearing is a t-shirt Dean left behind at some point, and a pair of comfy sweatpants. Definitely not outing attire.

Cas waves him off, a hand emerging from the blanket. “I’m fine; just lost track of time. I can be ready in five,” he says, already unwrapping himself from the human burrito-wrap of the comforter.  
He’s not even halfway up from the couch when he sneezes so hard, he gets knocked back on his ass ungracefully.

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You’re not gonna be ready in five, Cas. You’re sick.” He sighs, a hand reaching out to touch his forehead, finding it warm and damp.

“‘M not sick. I don’t get sick,” Castiel insists, blinking owlishly at him while trying to squint menacingly at the same time. His eyes are rimmed red, and Dean can’t help but chuckle at him.

“Sure, big boy. Pretty sure you have a fever, though. Have you taken anything?” he asks him, pushing on his chest a little to get him to settle back into the cushions.

Cas lets himself fall back into the couch with a huff, relenting.

“I took Nyquil,” he grumbles.

“At two in the afternoon?” Dean asks, baffled.

“It was all I could find,” Cas murmurs around a dry cough. “I had two coffees, also,” he adds, squinting up at Dean like he’s challenging him. “I’ll be good to go in a few minutes.”

“You drank coffee. With Nyquil.” He huffs, head shaking a little in disbelief. “How are you even alive, man,” he asks, dropping on the couch next to the nest of blankets. Castiel eyes him a little warily but doesn’t shoo him away. Progress.

“You’re not going anywhere. My guess is you’ll feel like shit for a while actually,” he says, toeing his boots off and getting comfortable on the couch.

“I do feel a little nauseated. I guess,” Castiel grumbles, relenting a little as he sniffles lightly.  
“I just- I know you were looking forward to this,” he whispers, his voice rough, with the cold, or with sadness, Dean won’t have a chance to find out.

He sighs, something warm and bruising swelling behind his ribs before he can stop himself. Before he can remind himself he can’t feel tender for this man, for his flushed cheeks and his deep, wet eyes.

“It’s fine,” he replies, and he doesn’t say they can go some other time, because they both know their days are coming to an end and there won’t be another time. There’s no point in pretending.

The words still hang in the air between them, in the space between Dean’s tense shoulders and Cas’s sad eyes. Neither of them addresses it.

He swallows around the lump in his throat and forces all thoughts of tomorrow to the back of his mind, buried deep where he doesn’t have to look at them. Not now, when he’s warm and light, and Cas’s eyes are blue and just for him. When he can pretend it’s enough.

“So what we watchin'?” he asks, before Cas can grumble a reply back.

There’s a pause like Cas wants to add something. Dean doesn’t breathe for a second.

“Dr. Phil,” Cas sighs eventually, relenting, settling back against the arm of the couch, pillows and blankets shuffling around him like a white, fluffy armor.

There seems to be people arguing on the TV, their voices sharp and loud in his ears as Dean tries to pay attention and fails.

Somehow they end up entangled on the soft couch, bodies intertwined together through the pillows and the gentle embrace of the blankets. Dean’s back on Cas’s chest, slouched low on his stomach, and he can feel every little rumble and shuffle of Cas’s breath as he talks and chuckles at the TV. Soon Dean is warm and floating; relaxed like he hasn’t been in so long, it makes his soul ache just a little. He wishes this was something he got to keep.

Cas shuffles and sniffles every now and then, breath damp on Dean’s neck, arms curled loosely around his stomach. Dean fully expects him to conk out at some point, but Cas seems to have other ideas altogether. Because suddenly there are fingers slipping sneaky under Dean’s shirt, cold and clammy and unexpected.

Dean flinches a little at the sudden contact, goosebumps chasing each other on his skin, curling around Cas’s hands.  
“What are you doing, man?” He chuckles, voice shaking a little, something bright filling his throat at the intimacy of the gesture, as Cas’s hands curl loosely over the pouch of his belly, pressing light into the soft folds he feels so self conscious about.  
The same ones Lisa always side eyes right before suggesting he should join her yoga classes, maybe go to the gym with her a couple times a week. He never does.

There’s a prickling on his cheeks where he’s blushing, and he automatically sucks a breath in, making his stomach as flat as he can.

Cas pinches him, and Dean lets the breath go.

“‘M cold,” Cas says. “You’re so warm, so... soft,” he murmurs, breath curling over Dean’s ear as he bends towards him, slow and sure, voice a little slurred and a little rough.

Dean shivers and lets Cas hold him.

“Not soft,” he whispers, feeling embarrassed for some reason.

Cas huffs a chuckle against his neck. “Just a little,” he says. “I love it,” he adds, low and secret. Dean slumps against him and closes his eyes, basking in the comfort of Cas’s hands on his bare skin. Enjoying the way they warm up ever so slowly, soaking up Dean’s heat.

Rationally, he knows that Cas’s brain is foggy with the medicine, looser and more slurred than usual; it doesn’t stop Dean’s insides from prickling lightly at the familiarity, the cozy way Cas’s hands sneak on his skin, like they belong there, like it’s an everyday occurrence.

He shivers a little, tucks closer to the warmth of Cas’s body behind him. He feels tender inside, like all his layers have been suddenly peeled off and Cas’s hands are reaching into the exposed bundle of his bare soul.

There’s a commercial on the TV, loud and brash and not interesting enough for Dean to get distracted. He sits, mellow, listening to Cas breathe in deep, following his fingers as they play idly on his skin. Cas’s hands are gentle as they sink under the waistband of Dean’s jeans, then under his briefs. The touch is still light, innocent, a comfort more than an exploration; but Dean can still feel his body reacting, stirring and chubbying, interested in a lazy and relaxed way.

The TV keeps rambling on and Cas keeps touching him. It’s a feather-light thing, trailing lower and lower, until it’s purposeful, until Dean is sweating a little and there’s an itch in his throat he can’t seem to swallow back down.

Dean knocks his thighs apart a little wider under the blanket, head lulling back into the solid alcove of Cas’s chest, eyes slipping closed as he abandons every pretense he’s still following the show.

“Cas,” he groans, a shiver that slips out of him without him really wanting it to. And Cas is right there, his breath a rumble in his chest, with his slow hands and sure touch, and Dean’s skin is on fire and sated at the same time. A pleasure that rises slow, cresting in his gut with every gentle sweep of fingers on his stomach, his groin, and then lower, where he’s now hard and craving.

When Cas finally wraps a hand around him, it feels like being granted a benediction he doesn’t really deserve.  
He still wants it; he still pushes into Cas’s hand, hips lifting from the couch just enough for him to get the friction he needs.  
His hands are balled in the blanket, and he unfurls them, needs to feel Cas solid and heavy, touch his skin, whatever slice of him he can grasp. So he latches onto his bicep, feeling the muscle shifting and pulling as Cas jerks him off in long, tight strokes that make the breath still in his lungs.

It’s a slow thing. Cas keeps his touch languid and lax, just enough to keep Dean on the edge, but not enough to push him off. It’s maddening and delicious at the same time and Dean loses himself in it; legs spread, mouth open around a moan, back arched against Cas. He almost can’t believe he’s losing every upper brain function he’s got left because of a damned handjob, but Cas’s hands are so big and sure, and every touch is filled with a sensual energy that thrums constant and enticing between the two of them.

It goes on long enough that Dean can feel sweat pooling on his groin, prickling hot on his skin; urgency coils in his gut, his stomach clenching tight in need. He ruts back against Castiel, and he seems to understand.

Cas’s fingers slip under his shirt again, tickling his ribs, caressing his flank teasingly, brushing against his nipples until Dean’s breaths hitch in his lungs.  
Cas keeps touching him everywhere, slow and without urgency, until Dean is liquid all over, muscles melting over the couch, trickling through the slack grasp of Castiel’s fingers.

When Cas lays his lips on his neck, Dean lets him, bares his throat, stretches out as far as he can, making himself ripe for the taking. And Cas doesn’t need to be told twice; he sucks and bites and licks at the sweat on his skin like it’s a delicacy. And it should be gross but it’s just right, animalistic and pure and everything Dean wants. Right there.

Cas’s lips are wet on his skin, his teeth sure and nipping at the bared column of his throat, marking him where everyone can see. Dean knows he should stop it, knows it’s stupid and Lisa will see it, and he won’t have an excuse for it. But it feels so good, Cas’s tongue so soothing on his skin, worrying it between his lips, sucking on it. Not letting go until Dean’s head is a throbbing, heavy fog that just makes him want to be held and touched forever.

When Dean finally comes, it almost takes him by surprise. A wave that builds and curls in his gut, until it’s spilling over, thighs clenching around Cas’s fist, fingers uselessly grasping at his arms.

He moans and breathes hot, head pushed urgently into Cas’s chest, where he smells like Dean’s detergent and summer sweat.

He lays there, body buzzing and heavy, limbs gracelessly thrown askew on the couch, held together only by Cas’s touch on his skin, still slow and sure and right there, just for him.  
He pulls at Cas’s arm where it’s still playing idly on Dean’s skin, wiping his come away with his t-shirt, lazy and tender. If there was a way to stretch this moment forever, Dean would take it, damn the consequences. He would trade it all for just this, a drop more, a touch more.

It’s an impossible task, to keep his hands off of Cas then, when he’s so close and smells so good and Dean wants him so bad.

He turns around, spins in the circle of Cas’s arms and slithers over his body. Leaves a kiss on his lips, another on the column of his neck, hides his face there for just a minute, just to breathe the scent of him deep, so that it’ll be buried in his lungs, even when he’s far away and can’t reach him with his hands.

Cas lays there, a half-lidded, heavy-limbed statue, all open desire and no urgency, a fire that burns steady and deep.

There are hands on Dean’s face, in his hair, as he pushes himself down in the V of Cas’s legs, and relishes the sigh that escapes Cas’s lips when he pulls his cock out of his pants.  
He licks it, rains kisses all over it, sucks the tip in so gently he knows Cas must be burning with frustration. But Cas lets him do it all, his hand a steady weight on the crown of his head, not pushing, not gripping, just _there_. Like he wants to drag the moment out for as long as it’ll go without shattering. Like he wants all Dean will give him and more.

It flutters something furious and bright in Dean’s chest, to be wanted so openly and so desperately, to want Cas back just as strongly and not having the words to say it.

He doesn’t speed up, even when his leg starts cramping and his jaw starts aching. Takes the weight of Cas’s dick in as deep as he can, lets it rest on his tongue, impossibly hot and hard. Slides his hands over his stomach, where he’s tense and taut, over his nipples, whatever stretch of skin he can reach, his hands greedy, fingers splayed wide. Until Cas is crying out under his ministrations, pushing into his mouth, sweat beading on his face, moaning out Dean’s name like a chant.

He spits on his finger then, wet on Cas’s perineum, and lower, between his cheeks, where he’s dry and hot and tight. Cas’s legs go slack and then tight around his head, his hips swinging between the heat of his mouth and the pressure of his finger, like Cas can’t decide which death to die.

It doesn't last much longer then. Cas’s body soon draws tight, clenching around his finger and pulsing hot inside his mouth. And Dean takes it all, doesn’t even dare close his eyes, even if they’re watering. He has this urge in his chest to cherish every moment of this, because he doesn’t know if he’ll ever have it again.  
There’s a choked off cry when Cas comes, like he doesn’t have the energy to form a moan, his body seizing in pleasure for a moment that feels endless.

When he finally relaxes, Dean lets him slip out of his mouth and takes his finger back.  
He sits up - joints buzzing, chest tight and mouth bitter - and when he looks at Cas again, he finds him crying.

And it’s not the full on sobbing he did the other night; it’s a quiet, subtle weeping, tears leaking out of his eyes like he can’t stop them. He throws an arm over his eyes, like that’ll be enough to shield him from Dean.

He doesn’t tell him it’s all going to be fine this time, because he doesn’t think Cas will believe him. He just tucks him back in his underwear, then slots his body over his, arms sneaking around his waist, face rubbing over the gentle swell of his chest.

“'M here,” he says, because it feels like what Cas needs to hear.

He’s here now, and he will be again, if he has any say in it.

He just hopes Castiel feels the same.

Cas just sniffles, wet and broken, sneaks a hand over Dean’s head, fisting gentle in his hair, the other dropping heavy over his shoulders and holding on tight. He doesn’t say anything else, and Dean is grateful, lets himself be held as tight as Cas needs, as close as they can get.

It’s easy then to fall asleep, Cas’s steady breath puffing over his ear, the TV rambling in the background, his body held tightly, still buzzing with leftover pleasure.

\---

Something is ringing, and Dean wants to stab it. Gut it. Anything that will stop the noise from rattling his brain into his skull. He’s cozy, cheek squished against the solid plane of Cas’s pecs, a small pool of saliva dripping right on Cas’s shirt. There ain’t a chance in hell that Dean is moving right now, so he hopes Cas isn’t that grossed out by it.

Eyes squeezed shut, he nuzzles deeper into Cas’ chest, trying to reclaim the strands of what had been a glorious nap. Suddenly his pillow starts moving, pushing at his shoulders insistently, trying to get up from under him.

“The fuck,” Dean mumbles, voice thick, wiping drool from his cheek.

“Move. Dean, move, I have to get this,” Cas insists, and there’s an urgency in his voice that Dean doesn’t like.  
He moves, suddenly sobered, and lets Cas climb down and fetch his phone from where it’s laying on the coffee table.

Cas takes the phone, looks at it as it rings, shoulder pulled tight to his ears, body tense.  
Dean almost asks what’s going on, when Cas finally answers.

“Evan, hi,” he says, and his eyes are sad.

Dean’s stomach bottoms out, insides icy cold as he watches it all unravel.

Cas scurries away to a corner to take his call, and even with how big and luxurious the hotel room is, there’s no way for Dean not to overhear what he’s saying.  
So he sits on the couch, pretends to watch a commercial about some new SUV he won’t be buying, ears perked up and straining for Cas’s words.

He only picks up a few, here and there, Cas’s voice a quiet growl he can barely hear. He almost feels bad for intruding, almost stops listening altogether.

Until he hears his own name being uttered and suddenly the whole room tilts upside down. Or maybe that's just him.

“I don’t understand why this is even a big deal at all. I told her yesterday, and I’m telling you now, Dean is an old friend, that’s it.” Cas’s voice is sharp, and the way he says _Dean_ then is miles away from how he used to whisper it right on his lips. Dean tells himself to hold on, it’ll be fine.

“Yes, she, uh- she confronted me about it yesterday, but-

“No, I didn’t tell you because there’s _nothing_ to tell. You’ve been busy; there was no reason to bring it up. You’ve barely stayed on the phone five minutes. It’s not like I’ve been hiding stuff.”  
 _But he has_ , and Dean knows. Heart drumming in his ears, he has to wonder if this is how everything falls apart.

“No, that’s not- Of course, it’s not your fault. There’s no fault because _nothing_ happened. I don’t understand why you’d take Erin’s word over mine, especially when I’m giving you facts and she’s giving you some- made up theories.”

Dean’s head is fuzzy, like he’s stuck underwater and he can’t even see the surface anymore, everything distorted and strange through his senses.

There’s nothing more he wants than to be as far away from this room as he can possibly get. Far away from seeing the consequences of his careless actions, far from where Cas is dismissing what they have together like it’s a speck of dust and nothing more.  
It’s a long, sharp pin, folded right at the center of his chest, sunk right down to his lungs, so that it burns and bleeds with every breath.

He stays rooted to the spot, silent. He keeps listening.

“You said it too, you’ve said it a million times, you don’t want to hear about the past, so I don’t tell you, what’s the point?” Cas’s voice sounds resigned, like he’s losing a battle.

“No. What- I mean, why would you do that? No, no, no, Evan, listen- There’s no need for you to do that. Think of all the work you’d miss, and at a crucial time like this. And for what? This doesn’t- It doesn’t mean anything.”

Fuck, that hurts. It's not like Dean didn’t know, but hearing it straight from Cas’s mouth is different, like being plunged into icy water. And they can tell you it’s gonna be cold, that it’s going to hurt, but nothing can really prepare you for the way your breath is cut off suddenly like you’re choking on solid air, the way you shiver so violently you feel your bones rattling inside your body.

“I am not making excuses, because there are no excuses to be made, this isn’t even like you. And honestly, why would I spend all this time and energy on the wedding if I wasn’t going through with it, if I- if I wasn’t committed to it- to you, Evan.”

That’s it, Dean decides, he can’t hear anymore. No matter what Cas says next, it’s never going to erase the sound of those words. They’re gonna keep echoing inside Dean’s brain until it’s all he can hear.  
He needs to move, needs to get the fuck out of here before he loses his breath and can’t find it anymore. Before Cas sees how badly he wants it all and how much it hurts that he can’t have it.

The tense rumble of Cas’s voice is still there in the background, but Dean can’t listen anymore. Maybe it’s self preservation, and maybe it’s foolishness, but he needs to leave. It feels as if this is the end and this is where Cas shows his true colors, how much he doesn’t care about Dean. Because, after all, why would he? Why would anyone?

Dean knew he had nothing to give, nothing to offer, especially not to Cas and his perfect little life. Suddenly it’s so clear, he can’t believe he hadn’t seen it before.

There had never been a chance of Cas leaving his fiancé, of Cas not really being happy with his relationship, wanting something more, wanting _Dean_.

He’s a fool for letting himself believe it, and the scorn of it burns even hotter than he could have imagined, on his cheeks, in his chest, his throat, his eyes.

His hands shake as he puts his stuff back into his bag, tries not to look at all the things he had packed for the day. The blanket he got for Cas sits innocently at the bottom of his bag. He takes it out and lays it on the couch, because what’s he going to do with it anyway? It was always meant for Cas.

He doesn’t want to look back before he exits the room, but he can’t stop himself from stealing one last glance.

Cas is facing the window, a hand fisted so tight in his hair he looks like he's about to tear it out, eyes wide and mouth pulled tight. The way the evening light paints his skin is unfair, like all Dean wants to do is lick it off of him, see if he tastes like the dying sun.

It’s a monstrous effort to drag his eyes away and to the door. To keep his eyes straight ahead as he leaves the hotel and gets in his car, where he’s finally alone and nobody can see him. If his hand shakes when he turns the key in the ignition then that’s his business. Same for the insistent burning in his eyes.

He doesn't even glance at the hotel, just peels out of the parking lot and onto the interstate.

Anger and pain and shame roar in his ears, so loud he can barely hear the asphalt crunching under the wheels. He makes himself drive, looking forwards only and rolling one breath after the other, like he’s always done, like he’ll keep on doing, with or without Cas.

He can only hope there are enough miles between Austin and Lawrence for him to flush it all out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know if I should feel bad cause I gave you a kinda-nice/fluffy chapter and then smacked you in the face with angst at the end, or if I should feel good I did at least give you some happy stuff first 😅
> 
> I know many of you will start getting mad at Cas right about now, and I understand that, what he said was hard to hear. But I've been saying it for a while, no matter how perfect for each other they might be, the boys aren't in a great place just yet, Cas especially. They need to complete their own personal journey before they can get to that happy and healthy place together <3 I hope that made sense but if anyone has questions I am happy to answer!
> 
> Personally, today has been a really bad day, I got some bad news on top of everything that's been going on and life is pretty much a huge mess.  
> BUT, in all of that, I literally said to myself, "at least it's Friday and I get to post the new chapter".  
> That's just to show how important this space has become to me; it might seem silly, but I do always look forward to sharing this with you guys and getting to read your reactions.  
> So thank you to everyone who has been engaging with the story in some way, if you decide to leave a comment you have a place in my heart <3
> 
> PS: Come say hi on [tumblr](https://flurryflair.tumblr.com/) !


	15. Evan - Cas POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, okay, here we go. Just posting the chapter I've been worrying about since the start, NO BIGGIE 🙂
> 
> I'll keep it brief, but I do wanna say; this chapter was hard for me to write, and I bet it'll be hard for most of you to read. Again, just please keep in mind that I'm not toying with the characters needlessly and that all the pain will be worth it in the end, just gotta get through the hard stuff before we can get to the happy ending <3  
> So here we go, some texting, a signature, and just a really bad day.
> 
> !!!WARNINGS!!!: Emotional abuse, manipulation, medical manipulation (sorta), unhealthy relationship
> 
> Thanks to [eyesofatragedy ](https://eyesofatragedy67.tumblr.com/) and [ tipofmemory ](https://tipofmemory.tumblr.com/) , and [ huckleberrycas ](https://huckleberrycas.tumblr.com/) for helping me out with this!
> 
> PS: One good thing before the angst: huckleberrycas made an amazing fanvid for this story, it's incredible and she deserves all the love for it. [ Check it out here!!! ](https://huckleberrycas.tumblr.com/post/613332192671694848/a-small-fanvid-i-created-in-support-of-an) 🤩

_< DEAN (SENT 6.42 pm)_   
_< Dean just please answer your phone_   
_< I needt to talk to you_   
_< Why did you leave like that you need o let me explain_   
_< *to_

He tries, thumbs flying on the screen of his phone, slippery with sweat.

Dean doesn’t answer any of his texts, his calls go straight to voicemail. Castiel pictures him, eyes on the road, hands curled tight around the steering wheel, only looking forwards and not sparing one glance for what he’s leaving behind.

His heart is still pounding from running after him, down the stairs and to the parking lot, just to see the rusty red of his truck peeling off.

He’d been too late. Too late to stop Dean from leaving, too late to convince Evan not to come to Austin.

There’s an echo in his head, blood thrumming so loud he can barely hear himself think. The picture of Dean’s face as he was leaving; his features, so lovely in the sunset, contorted in anger and pain, and all because of Castiel’s carelessness.

The phone’s plastic whines dangerously where he’s clutching it too tight and he makes himself lay off, fingers unclenching one by one.

Maybe he can still catch up to Dean, explain himself, tell him that he was just trying to convince Evan, that he doesn’t mean it, of course he doesn’t. If Dean is leaving him, he should leave knowing all the facts.

He makes it back to his room, into his shoes, then to the car. Traffic is slow and maddening the way it always is at seven pm; and it somehow feels like the cars should just sense his urgency, how important this is, simply part in the middle and let him through. Instead he’s condemned to sit and fret, just like everybody else, sweaty and antsy, with his stomach turning inside out. Unable to make himself detach from his phone.

_< DEAN (SENT 7:11 pm)_   
_< Are you still in town?_   
_< are you driving?_   
_< you don’t have to talk, just listen_   
_< There are things you don’t understand_   
_< I know I don’t deserve it, but Please let me talk to you_

He tries calling again, but to no avail; Dean doesn’t pick up. Castiel calls Garth then, because he’s somehow reached that point where fixing it is more important than saving his own pride.  
Garth picks up right away, cheery and kind in a way that he would have found endearing just a few hours ago. He doesn’t seem to sense Castiel’s urgency, his fear, simply tells him he hasn’t seen Dean and that he assumed he’s left for Lawrence.

Castiel is numb when he thanks him and hangs up, and there’s a sudden rotten taste at the back of his mouth.

It takes him over thirty minutes to even get out of downtown, and he’s sitting at the upteenth red light when he finally realizes he’s never going to catch up to Dean. That if he doesn’t want to be found, then he is more than skilled enough at hiding his tracks.

He still makes himself drive to the workshop, because that’s the sort of thing a foolish man like him would do. It’s not a surprise when he finds it closed and dark, but it still stings.

Standing there, empty and unraveled, he lets grief sink its talons deep into him. Grief for the loss of this thing with Dean, that was so easy and so not, that he wanted so badly and wasn’t able to keep. Grief for the last time he was robbed of, the last kiss he never got to give, the one filled with all the things they’d left unsaid, deep and bittersweet.  
Because Dean will be on his way to his family, his wife, and deep down Castiel has always known it would end like this.

It howls something fierce in his chest, and he struggles to decide if it’s anger he’s feeling, or sadness.

His hands shake when he reaches out to open the car door, and he observes the phenomenon like it doesn’t belong to him. They don’t stop shaking the entire drive back to the hotel, not even when he’s back in the safe space of his room, taking stumbling steps towards what had been his and Dean’s safe haven just this afternoon.

The big couch is as cozy and inviting as it was when he left it, except for one thing.  
There’s a new blanket, carefully folded and laid on the arm of the couch, and the sight of it finally snaps that thread that had managed to keep him upright and functioning till now. Because Dean must have left it, he must have remembered how Castiel hadn’t liked sitting on the spiky grass, must have gone out to pick it out just for him, just so he could be comfortable. Because that’s the kind of man Dean is, caring in all those small ways that don’t seem to matter but do.  
Castiel doesn’t deserve any of it, and this is simply the moment when he has to admit to something he has known since the very beginning.

His heart is pounding frantically and there’s no stopping it, fear and adrenaline swiftly turning into full blown panic.

Because he had everything he could possibly want all balanced oh so carefully in the palm of his hand, and now the cards have been tipped over and everything is slipping away, faster than Castiel can ever hope to catch.

His phone blinks where it’s sitting on the couch and he’s unlocked it before it’s even done buzzing, heart pounding all over again, because maybe, just maybe, this is the second chance he doesn’t deserve.

But it’s not Dean.

**> EVAN (RECEIVED 8:23pm)**   
**> I am booking a flight to Austin for tomorrow morning**   
**> I will not be booking a car, I expect you to come get me from the airport**   
**> You should use this time to really think about what you’ve done, Castiel**

It’s suddenly impossible, to try and recall a time when Evan’s texts would warm him up from the inside out, a sign of thoughtfulness rather than a cold-blooded threat.

He doesn’t reply, because he knows Evan won’t expect him to. He wonders what there is for him to do, other than accept that his life is crumbling to pieces, and let himself fall with it.

There are pills resting innocently at the bottom of his suitcase, where he left them a week before, now calling out to him like a siren. He hasn’t spared a single thought for them the past week; maybe because whenever his mind started spiraling, Dean would be just an arm's reach away, solid and warm and lovely.

And Castiel had let himself fall into him as carelessly as he had accepted his presence into his life. Fooling himself into thinking it could last, that he could deserve him.

When he reaches for the pills, it feels like a lost battle.

He’s still grateful for the fabricated sleep they provide him, dreamless and flat, curled on the couch, his head shoved deep into the pillow where Dean’s was resting, eyes shut tight, like he can almost pretend nothing has changed.

It’s a short sleep, thick and fuzzy in his mouth, his head no longer fretting in terror but foggy with a fake kind of calm he has come to associate with the drugs.

There’s a few seconds where he’s still between sleep and consciousness, warm and surrounded by the smell of Dean sunk deep into the pillows. He frowns when he doesn’t feel the warmth of his body next to him, turns to find him, tickle the place on his flank that always makes him squirm and bring him back where he belongs, back to his chest.

He rolls over and has to brace a hand on the floor because he’s on the couch, and he’s alone, and he’s about to fall on his face.

It all comes rushing back with the force of a waterfall, loud and overwhelming.

Evan questioning him about Dean, him denying everything, Dean leaving like he had been physically stung, without saying goodbye.

He lets himself fall onto the floor, breath solid in his lungs.

He can feel the itch of panic mounting just under his skin, its grip slipping on the smooth cover of the drugs, still blissfully effective.

His hand shakes a little as he reaches for the phone again, blinking with the notification for a text.

**> EVAN (RECEIVED 9:24 pm)**   
**> Just confirmed it, will be at the airport by 1:20pm**   
**> Terminal 2**

His heart plunges back into the swamp of his insides. He needs to call Dean, make him understand, tell him he means so much more to him than he thinks he does, that he deserves so much better, that he’s sorry.

He texts him twice more, then calls, hand shoved tight in his hair, gripping it so hard it hurts a little. He’s ready to stay on the line for however long it takes Dean to come to his senses, but it turns out he doesn’t have to, the call clicks after the third ring.

“You’ve gotta stop calling me at some point, Cas, I’m drivin,” Dean grumbles, and Castiel almost cries with the relief of simply hearing his voice. The deep rumble of it, the drawl of his own name on Dean’s lips, it’s like sunrise in his chest all over again.

“Dean, I-” He’s so surprised he doesn’t even know what he’s going to say, wants to tell him so many things and knows none of them can ever be enough. The silence stretches on so long that Dean clears his throat, confused. “You- uh, you’re driving to Lawrence then? Now?” Castiel asks finally.

“Yeah, I, uh- I thought I’d just get on with it, y’know.” Dean leaves the whys and the hows unsaid, like they both don’t know exactly what happened before he left.

There’s a hurricane in Castiel’s mind, winds whipping his thoughts. Because they could have had more time; they could have had more time, and now they _don’t_ and it’s Castiel’s fault.

“It’s my fault, Dean. I’m- I’m sorry; you have to understand. Erin, she told Evan about you coming to the hotel, and he was saying all sorts of things. He told me he was booking a flight to Austin for tomorrow, I just- I don’t even remember what I said,” - _he does_ \- “I was just- trying to buy some time. I just wanted more... More time.”

It all comes out, rushed and stuttering, pitiful, not enough.

Dean is silent on the other side, sounds of trucks driving by loud in the receiver.

“Well, looks like time ran out on us, Cas.” There’s no anger, no spite, just a blank statement, his voice a low grumble, like radio static. And Castiel wishes he could climb through the electric lines, grab him by the shoulders, shake him, tell him to fight for this, to come back.

But how can he say that when he’s the one who set it all on fire?

Dean keeps talking.

“Look, I don’t blame you, okay? What else were you going to tell him anyways? There’s nothing to tell; not like it was ever going to end different for us anyway...” he whispers, and Castiel can picture him running his hand over his face, pushing the words out as they rasp in his throat.

It sounds like a question, just not one Castiel is ready to answer. Because Dean’s right, and they both know it. There seems to be a soft wisp of hope in Dean’s tone, but it’s easier to pretend it’s his own wistfulness.

“Dean, I- I wish-” he starts but doesn’t finish, because he’s not sure what he even wants to say, what kind of words to string one after the other. But it feels like he has to try. Because Dean Winchester, who loves so openly, so intensely, shouldn’t have to think he’s unwanted, a mere afterthought, a nobody. “I wish things were different. If- if they were, then I- I just need you to know-”

“Yeah, I know, Cas, I know-” he interrupts him, inhales, then holds the breath in his lungs like he isn’t sure if he wants to push the words out or hold them in forever. “Me too,” he whispers, on the tail end of a sigh.

It feels like an opening, like they’re _this_ close to talking about things; Castiel opens his mouth to ask, to say that maybe they could, should find a way, maybe-

“Look, I gotta run, for real. I’m at a gas station now, but I should get going.”

Castiel deflates, all his maybes and what-ifs rushing out of him in one go.

“Of course, I understand,” he says, then summons courage he didn’t think he still had. “Will I- I mean, are you coming back here? After?” _Will I see you again? I need to see you again._

He knows there’s hope, a little bit of desperation tinting his words, but there’s nothing he can do about it now.

The car door opens and closes and it’s silent inside. Castiel waits.

“Yeah, I’ve gotta finish up with my business there; the Jameson guy commissioned an extra closet, so-”

“Okay, good, that’s- that’s good, Dean,” he mumbles and he wishes relief wasn’t so warm and tingly in his chest. Because what happens when Dean doesn’t come back, when they have to walk away; what happens then.

He wishes he could reach out to Dean, hold out his hands and let their skin talk to one another, without the interference of language and the weird shape that words take once you push them past your lips, in the space between his lips and Dean’s ears.

They say their goodbyes, and something loosens in Castiel’s chest, like he can handle whatever happens with Evan, as long as there’s Dean at the end of it, even just for a little while.

Panic subsides a little in his chest. Only to spike back to life when he realizes he’s going to be meeting Evan in just a few hours.

Cas wonders what he’ll tell Evan when he lands, how he’ll act, should he kiss him? It feels weird now, to even think about it, like his body has been claimed and its owner isn’t Evan.

**> DEAN (RECEIVED 9:42pm)**   
**> Take Nyquil before you sleep**

Leave it up to Dean to drag him out of his spiral and back out where it’s safe and kind.

**> DEAN (RECEIVED 9:43pm)**   
**> Scratch that**   
**> EAT FIRST, then take Nyquil**

That punches a laugh out of him, which turns into a sneeze. His chest does something strange, like there’s a giant rubber band all around him, squeezing and squeezing, and it’s warm, but hard to breathe. Must be his cold acting up.

_< DEAN (SENT 9:44pm)_   
_< Don’t text and drive, Dean_

The menu of the room service lies sticky and rumpled where he and Dean left it days ago, and it calls out to him.

He orders a steak dish Dean had approved of when he had seen it the first time, before he had started complaining about the price and how he could have easily done the same at home for five, eight dollars tops.

The memory makes him smile, and when the person on the phone asks him if he would like to add a bottle of wine, he barely spares it a thought before saying yes.

When it finally gets there, the steak is nice and the wine is nicer. Soon there’s crumbs all over the duvet, and the TV is running some Comedy Central special that draws a chuckle out of him every now and then.

He thinks Dean would enjoy it, takes his phone out to tell him.

_< DEAN (SENT 10.23pm)_   
_< Let me know when you reach Lawrence_   
_< I’d like to know you made it safely_

**> DEAN (RECEIVED 10.57pm)**   
**> Might be old but I still know my way around an interstate**   
**> Stopped at a motel for the night**   
**> Turns out Springer, Oklahoma has no taste in decor**

The next text is a picture of some truly horrific carpet and wallpaper combo; blues and purples and greens all mixed together in a pattern that would have been pretty garish in its day; yellowed by time and carelessness, it's even more of an eyesore.

A laugh bubbles through his lips, as he pictures Dean frowning at the offending decor, tired and road-weary. He wishes he could give him something better, could take care of him until he’s restored, his energy replenished.

He tells him about the comedy special, gets a blurry picture of a TV straight from the eighties and a caption that says “no cable”.

There’s a minute he spends fantasizing about traveling with Dean, showing him the prettiest beaches and the most luxurious hotels. Watching him watch the water move from atop the Golden Gate Bridge, resting mellow and sun-drunk on the grass in Italy, eating sticky dates right off of Cas’s fingers in Istanbul.

The pictures are so clear, they almost feel like a memory of something he’s already lived through; fill him with a breathless nostalgia for all the beautiful things they never had together.

The wine and the meds must be getting to him, because he almost finds himself reaching for his phone to tell Dean so. He avoids it, just in time, bids him goodnight instead.

Dean says it back, right away, and it’s not where they used to be, not where they should be, but it’s something.  
It’s enough.

\---

The next day is relentlessly cheery, a sliver of light hitting him on the face as he struggles to wake up. The sky is blue through the window, a buzzing in the air like the first cheeky hints of summer.

Mouth dry and brain fuzzy, he stumbles to the bathroom, and there isn’t a shower relaxing enough and long enough to prepare him for the day ahead.

He wonders how he can possibly have it all so backwards, how he managed to end up like this. He’s supposed to be happy, picking up his fiance from the airport so that they can plan their wedding, the culmination of a relationship that has shaped the last decade of his life.

Lana, the receptionist, smiles at him when he walks by on his way to the car, and he can barely summon enough politeness to grin back.

There’s a Zeppelin song playing when he turns the radio on, and he turns it back off immediately, heart hammering right in his throat. Traffic is almost as bad as it was back in California, and he finds himself wishing for the absolute quiet and isolation of the cabin. Or maybe it’s Dean’s hands he’s longing for; he isn’t sure anymore.

By the time he gets to the airport, Evan is already there, standing sulkily on the curb, phone fisted in one hand, eyes pulled down into a frown as he tries to spot Cas’s car, waving him forwards through the endless lineup of Ubers.

Everything is as it’s always been, grey eyes and floppy blond hair, and the suitcase Castiel bought for him for Christmas two years ago.

“Been waiting on the curb for ten minutes,” Evan grunts as he shoves in the car, doesn’t look at him.

“Yes, I’m sorry. I just- I didn’t realize traffic would be this bad already,” and it feels like just the first empty apology of many.

Evan is silent next to him, jaw clenched tight, head shaking just a little.

“How.. Um- How was the flight?”

“It was a flight, cramped seats and more cramped seats; I’m sure you’re familiar.”

He stops asking questions after that, any hope that the day might not be as awful as he feared swiftly shattered.

They at least agree to have lunch first, and Castiel drives to a food truck Dean had showed him just a few days before; its menu is a weirdly delicious combination of Indian and Mexican food.

Evan grimaces at his order, complains about the crappy bench they end up sitting on, rolls the sleeves of his crisp white shirt with such force Castiel is almost afraid he’ll tear it.

He doesn’t complain about the actual food once he takes a bite, and Castiel counts it as a win.

They roll the windows down a bit as they drive to the hotel, and he can almost pretend everything is going to be fine. The silent and tense form of Evan sitting next to him tells him it’s not.

In the hotel room, Evan looks every bit the part he’s supposed to play in Castiel’s life - handsome, put-together, calm. He smiles at the confused but polite look the receptionist gives him as he walks in. If Castiel didn’t know any better, if he were a spectator and not the main actor in this farce, then he’d say they’re a happy couple.

The mood drops as soon as they step into the room. It’s in Evan’s measured steps, the careful way he avoids the bed and sits at the table by the window instead.

“Nice view you’ve got here,” he remarks, hands fisted in the pockets of his slacks, the lines of his back all tension and barely contained anger.

“Yes, it is, it’s a-“

“You let him fuck you in that bed?” Evan snaps suddenly, like he can’t bear to maintain the pretense of politeness a second longer. There’s anger in his eyes, and pain, and Castiel is the one who put them there.

“Evan, that’s not-”

“Castiel, we both know you’re smarter than this. Don’t waste breath denying it,” Evan scoffs, his voice a low and dangerous thunder. “You know, I can overlook you sleeping with somebody else, but to be this dumb about it?”

And of all the things he expected Evan to say, that wasn’t one of them. “Wha-” Words are ripped from his throat.

“You think I don’t know you spent a whole weekend in some house in the middle of the woods?”

“I don’t understand; how-”

“Good, we’re past the stage of denying it; that’s progress, saves us both a lot of time.” He snickers, a bitter grin on his face that doesn’t reach his eyes, “I put a tracker on your phone when I gave it to you, just to be safe. When Erin told me about your dirty little secret, I checked the logs, and yep, there you were! In some hillbilly’s cabin in the woods, back and forth for the whole month, then stuck there for days after you told me you were at the hotel not feeling well. I have to say, Castiel, you’re a better liar than I pegged you for.”

And suddenly guilt and shame roar in his throat, bright hot and almost painful.

“Evan, please, you need to let me explain.”

“I think I’ve got a pretty good picture already, and stop me if I’m wrong. I sent you here to plan the wedding, so you could take a break, get yourself together since you couldn’t handle your responsibilities anymore. This was supposed to _fix you_. But instead, you found some guy and spent the month getting fucked. While I’m back at the company, doing double the work.”

“Dean’s a friend, Evan. I ran into him by chance. I wasn’t planning-”

“Weren’t planning on being a cheater? It just happened? You were reminiscing about the good old times and then oops, you fell on his dick? Bet he’s a hobo, too.”

“No, he- You know I don’t like that word.”

“Ah! I think you’ve lost the moral high ground at this point, Cassie. But it’s okay. I've had a little time to think about this, and I think we can come to an agreement that can feel satisfactory to all parties involved,” and the anger in his voice is still there, just simmering under the surface, Castiel just wants to break through to him. Have a conversation where they’re both unguarded, honest.

“Evan, please, just talk to me. I’ve made a- a mistake; it wasn’t the right thing to do and I’m sorry. I’m sorry for the way things happened, but-”

“I’ve known you for how long, Castiel? Eight years? You’ve lived in my house for seven of those years, day in and day out. _I know you_. I know how your brain works, I know what you want, and I’ve always helped you get it; does that not mean anything to you anymore? Are you seriously ready to throw it all away for some guy you once shared a cardboard bed with? Does everything we achieved together mean nothing to you?” Evan asks him, turning to look at him, jaw clenched tight, anger making the lines of him shake.

“You know it does, Evan. Even if we hadn’t gotten involved romantically, the times we shared together, you know those will always be dear to me,” he starts, his feet bringing him closer, like if he can just be close enough he can stop this all from spiraling out of control.

Evan snorts, mouth pulled tight into a grimace that doesn’t flatter his face.

“You know, when I told Erin you and I had gotten together, she warned me, said it’s never good to mix work and relationships, but I thought she was wrong. Thought we could have the best of both worlds, you know? Your brain and my drive, our company and our relationship. Who could do better than that? Everybody would be jealous.” A bitter chuckle rolls off his tongue, and it hurts to see what they built together being belittled, carelessly thrown about like it doesn’t matter.

“And you and I, Castiel, we work together, we do, and you know that too. And yeah, maybe we don’t have the most exciting lives, but so what? Do you really think that whatever lust you feel right now will carry you through, put a roof over your head, more money in your bank account than you could have possibly had on your own. Us being together? It makes sense, Castiel. _We_ make sense. Do you really want to throw all of that away for what, a good fuck? Is that really how meaningless these past eight years have been for you? That’s how meaningless _I_ have been to you?”  
There are no tears in Evan’s eyes but there’s a burning fire, anger, disappointment, and Castiel knows he’s the one who put them there.

The past is a fishhook embedded deep into his guts, metal pulling and twisting, and Castiel feels as if he’s about to throw up. He opens his mouth to say something, correct Evan, but nothing comes out.

“Can’t even answer that. Fuck. Fine then, have it your way.”

He watches, silent, as Evan walks up to his briefcase, pulls out a manila folder stuffed full of freshly printed papers.

And Castiel can’t read what they say, but he has a good guess. Dread fills his chest cavity like an hemorrhaging organ.

“Evan, I don’t think the company has anything-” he starts, a hand raised between the two of them, placating.

“Doesn’t it, though? You’re erratic, irresponsible, you can’t fulfill the demands of your role any longer. And let’s be honest here, Castiel, really honest. You were never really meant for this. Your ideas, the way your brain thinks, that’s amazing. It’s the reason why I got close to you in the first place. It’s just- so _fascinating_. But a good idea goes nowhere without funding, investors, a HR department. I got you all of those, and all you’ve been doing is trying to keep up. What I’m giving you now is an out; it’s for you, for your brain. And you owe it to me too, after all you’ve been doing behind my back this month.”

Evan looks his age right then, standing tall and fragile in front of him, mustering the courage of a man he isn’t yet. Glasses perched low on his straight nose, fingers curled around a pen he was carrying around in his jacket pocket. It’s sterling silver and has his initials carved into it, _ECW_. Castiel was the one to save up money for it, so he could buy it for him when he finally graduated university. It stings now, to see it pointed at him like a threat.

He steps towards the table and the pen is heavy in his grip when he takes it from Evan’s hands.

“It’s better this way, Castiel. I have all the papers we need right here, all you need to do is sign and give up your shares, and I promise everything will be fine again. You get to be just another employee, I’ll even ask the board to bump up your pay and I’m sure they’ll agree. You’ll get all the benefits and none of the responsibilities. I’ll be taking care of those for you.” Evan’s hand is tentative on his shoulder, presses with a firm but trembling pressure, like he isn’t sure if he should leave it there or take it back.

Castiel stands, frozen still, hand raised just above the paper, trapped between the dotted line and Evan’s hand, knowing it’s a prison of his own making.

“I don’t know how we got here,” he whispers, head bent low, the ink on paper swimming in his vision where his eyes are cloudy with tears he doesn’t feel like he deserves to cry.

“Castiel-” Evan’s hand on his shoulders gets heavier.

“What about the wedding? What happens- what happens to us?” he asks, and his voice sounds hollow to his own ears.

“What about the wedding- I don’t know, Castiel. Do you even want to have a wedding anymore? Do you even want this? Want me?”

_Does he?_ He thought he did, was so sure, never really took the time to question it. And now Evan’s asking, and looking straight at him, and Castiel isn’t so sure anymore.  
“I just- I want things to be okay again,” he rasps out in the end, and it feels like the upteenth cop out.

“Then sign the papers. Sign the papers and come back.” Evan presses on, breathing in like he doesn’t know where to find his words, head bending low so he can catch Cas’s eyes over the papers. “Tell me this, Castiel. Can you really just leave it all behind? Everything we’ve built together? You’re ready to turn your back on it all, walk away, just like that? Do you think he’ll keep you safe, provide for you when you don’t have money for food, pay for your courses, your books, get you investors when everybody keeps turning you down? Because _I did that_ , I did that for you, and I’d do it again, and you know it.”

He does know it. Can’t do anything to escape that knowledge. He can pretend, but deep down he’ll always know, always remember how he was nothing before Evan came by, how everything he has built, he has built it with Evan’s help. Guilt weighs his eyes back down.

“Look at me,” Evan snaps, his hand tightening on Castiel’s shoulder. “Don’t you think you owe me to at least try? We can- we can be content together, have a life where you don’t have to want for anything ever again. And maybe you’ve forgotten the filthy guy who used to sneak in my classes with your ratted hoodie and a paper and pencil, but I haven’t. Are you seriously telling me you’d give up on everything that you’ve achieved for this man? Cause I’ve looked into his accounts, and let me tell you, the picture ain’t pretty. He’s never going to make enough to support you when your head gives out again, and pay child support to his wife at the same time. Because, in case you didn't know, he has a wife, and three kids. You sure you were a good enough lay for him to leave his whole family behind and run away into the sunset with no money and no ties? How long can that last before he’s itching to go back and you’re left on your ass like you were before I dragged you out of it?”

“No, I-”

“So answer this, where is he right now? Where is this man who has suddenly got you to question everything?”

“I- He- He’s in Lawrence right now,” he mutters with a voice so small it doesn’t even feel like his own. Evan regards him with a raised eyebrow “It’s his kids’ birthday.”

“Listen to yourself, Castiel! He’s gone back to his family, to his _wife_. Are you really that sure you showed him enough of a good time for him to come back? Cause last I remember that wasn’t exactly your forte.” He steps closer, Castiel has to fight the urge to step back. He wishes Evan’s words didn’t sting like they do, sinking so easily in a wound that’s already bleeding.  
“This isn’t you. You make better choices than this. You are _smarter_ than this, Castiel, I know you are. Let’s be reasonable about this, nothing happened that’s not fixable.”

“The wedding- I don’t think-”

“ _That’s_ what you’re worried about? We don’t have to do it right now, not ever if that’s not what you want. We can just go back home, work on things, we'll still have the company.”

There should be words on his lips, he should be talking, making a decision, swinging the sword one way or the other and accepting whatever fate has in store for him.  
But there’s nothing he can find to say, his chest barren, his thoughts a fog swirling in the air so fast he can’t seem to grab one.

Evan sees it as an opening and strikes again.

“You know what the definition of marriage is?” he asks, doesn’t wait for Castiel to answer. “It’s a contract. A contract between two consenting adults and the state. That’s it, that’s all it is.”

“Evan I don’t- It should feel different than this..” he tries, Evan laughs a laugh that’s all snark and no joy.

“Feelings? That’s what this is about? You want a fairytale wedding, wear a big fluffy dress and be kissed under the moonlight?” he snickers but there’s no amusement in his eyes. “I don’t know what tales this guy has been spinning, Castiel, but that’s not real life. That’s a fantasy for little girls to have. Real people, rational people, they get married because it makes sense, because it gives them tax breaks and their spouse insurance if they die. That’s what we agreed on, not some Disney crap.”

“That’s not what I meant, I just-”

“You just what, Castiel? You wanna be in love with your Prince Charming? Leave the life you’ve built behind and go skipping into the sunset? Cool, so let’s think about it then. Say, we break it off, cancel the wedding so you can go live your great fairytale romance. What then? What are you going to do? I’m not gonna work with you and be the joke of my own company, so clearly you’re not staying in California. So you’re moving where? To Kansas? Get a little place of your own so you can be his little side piece while he keeps pretenses up with his wife?”

His head spins, “No, I don’t- I’m not planning- I haven’t thought ab-”

“You haven’t thought about it, I know, it shows. Cause what are you going to do when he leaves you to be with his family again. I sure am not gonna be there waiting for you, so who else is going to be there? You don’t have any friends left, nobody but me. And you know that.”

Castiel scans his brain, digs deep into it to find a reply, a list of people he has that would come to his aid, but he finds none. Evan never liked any of them, so he pushed them away.

His silence seems to speak louder than any words, Evan steps back towards the table, voice even.

“Look, we don’t have to do this right now, you don’t even have to come back right away if you don’t want to. Just stay the rest of the week, work your stuff out. If you sign the papers right now you won’t even have to worry about the company anymore, you can leave all of that for me, wouldn’t that be nice?”

Castiel’s hand shakes as he grips the pen. It seems strange how something as small and insignificant as a signature can feel so final, inevitable.

“Have I ever steered you wrong? Haven’t I done everything in my power, and more, to ensure your success? Answer me.”

Castiel isn’t sure there’s anything to do for him but nod, so he does.

“Right. So why would I start now? This is for the best, trust me, Castiel. If you really want to make it up to me for what you've done behind my back, if you value everything I’ve given you for the past eight years, then you’ll sign this. You can consider it repayment for all the money and the energy I have invested in you.”

It doesn’t feel like a choice, Evan's voice is so close it’s all Castiel can hear, overshadows all his thoughts. His heart is pounding in his chest, stuttering beats, like it’s trying not to drown in the sea of guilt that’s rising steady inside Castiel’s chest.

He’ll never be able to make it up to Dean, will never be able to erase the stain of his mistakes from his memory. But this he can do.

Castiel signs.  
He doesn’t let himself think about the consequences, all the reasons he had for saying no, for resenting Evan for even asking him such a thing in the first place. All those reasons, they seemed so important just weeks before, and now they have shrunk, so small that Castiel can’t quite manage to reach them anymore, crushed under the weight of the guilt he feels for the ways he’s disappointed Evan. The signature on the paper, giving away what he worked for for so long, it feels like an appropriate punishment for his crime.

The ink is blue, stains the paper with a finality that he wasn’t expecting.

“This is for the best, Castiel, you’ll see,” Evan says, hand now slipping between his shoulder blades and Castiel has to repress a shiver.

They don’t talk much after that, Castiel doesn’t know what to say, how to say it, and Evan seems too preoccupied with double checking the addendums to all the paperwork.

He hides in the bathroom after a while because it’s become almost unbearable to share the room with Evan’s presence. The shower pounds on his muscles and he tries to tell himself he’s making the right choice, standing by Evan maybe not as a husband, but as a partner, one he’s built everything with, who is safe, steady, so far from those years spent on his own, on the streets with nobody to call.  
It’s what he’s been telling himself all these years after all, so why should it change now? Just because he found Dean?  
Dean, who is so loving and burns so bright, and is too good to be dragged down by the weight of Castiel’s mistakes.

And Evan’s right, Dean is back with his family, where he belongs, and Castiel doesn’t have anything to offer him. He’s fooled himself into thinking he had made something out of his human life, but it wasn’t true. University, the company, his relationship, those things he used to feel so proud of, don’t even belong to him. They’re Evan’s achievements, and Castiel’s just been dragging behind.  
He feels like a fraud.  
Of course Dean’s not coming back to him, he knows better than to be weighted down by him.  
Dean deserves better and Castiel has to admit to being a selfish, selfish being, when he wants nothing more than to crawl between Dean’s arms and never leave.

It’s like someone has punched a hole right in the middle of his chest, an invisible ridge that took most of his organs away with it. He feels it with every breath he takes, like the air has to go all the way around it to make it to his lungs.

He dries himself off, tries not to think of Dean’s hands sneaking inside the robe, curling warm over his hip bones, making him flush deep into his chest. Steam fills the room and at least he doesn’t have to look at his own reflection in the mirror, he’s not sure he could bear it.

It takes him especially long to get dressed again, he pulls on the garments slowly and can’t help but wonder where Evan will want to sleep tonight, if he should stay on the couch, if they should go to bed together, try to make it all work. The thought of doing so in the same place he and Dean first discovered each other makes the blood congeal in his veins.

It takes him five deep breaths to make it out of the bathroom, and when he finally does, Evan is crouched over the foot of the bed, tugging his shoes back on, and Castiel stops dead in his tracks.

“I thought- I thought you were staying?” He says and he hates the way his voice goes weak in the middle.

“Too much work to do, even just coming here messed up my schedule, I really can’t afford any more distractions, Castiel, this whole debacle has been detrimental enough already. Flight back is at seven tonight, we have time to drive there,” he says, not looking back at him, a shutter pulled over his eyes, like Castiel can’t get through to him no matter how hard he tries.

So Evan is leaving too, and Castiel has to fight through the initial burst of relief before he can find himself bitter, left behind.

“Here, I managed to find another doctor for you. One who isn’t so reluctant to prescribe you the stuff you need.” Evan says, fishing a pill container from his leather bag.

“What? But I liked Doctor Riley,” he’s startled to realize he kinda misses their talks, too.

Evan snorts, “Of course you liked her, she did nothing but agree with everything you said and never believed me when I told her how serious your anxiety problem was,” the pills rattle noisily in their container as he drops it on the nightstand. “You should be grateful I went through all the trouble of finding a doctor who isn’t so fussy about this kinda thing. These are stronger, they’ll help you, trust me.”

Castiel has to wonder where his voice has gone, because he can’t find any words to disagree with Evan. There must be something wrong with him, unable to even fight for himself. He stays silent because it’s easier.

Evan ends up calling an uber, leaves him with a brief squeeze on his arm, like merely brushing against him is enough to cause him distress.

“Oh, before I forget. Erin needs someone to watch her kids in a few days, I told her you’d do it. Not like you’ve got much going on anyway,” Evan says it as he’s walking out the door, like it’s something that won’t require a discussion.

“I just- Evan, I don’t know anything about kids,” he dares to say, and the stare Evan regards him with tells him there’s no fighting this.

“I don’t wanna hear it. Not like you have to do anything special, just make sure they don’t get hurt,” he sighs. “Look, you’ve gotta make amends with her, and this is the way to do it. I won’t have you come between me and my family, Castiel.”  
And that’s it, the last of it.

Evan leaves and in his wake there’s a throbbing silence, heavy and suffocating.  
Castiel lays on the bed in silence, looking at the ceiling until Dean texts him a picture of him with the twins. It’s a badly taken selfie, all shaking lines and crooked faces, the kids laying in his lap and beaming at the camera.

Another one follows, of the kids squeezed tight inside the boat Dean built them. It’s beautiful, gleaming bright in the sunlight, and it’s so easy to picture Dean’s chest swelling with pride at the sight.

They look happy, whole, and Castiel almost can’t believe he had thought, even for a moment, he could share that happiness. Guilt and regret burn acid in his chest, but at least he can be glad he won’t be the one to take their dad away from them.

**> DEAN (RECEIVED 10:29pm)**   
**> Party went great, kids loved the boat**   
**> I’ll be back tomorrow night**   
**> we should talk**

Castiel doesn't reply.

When he’s alone that night, thoughts heavy on his chest, like if he lays down he’ll suffocate, he wonders. Wonders if he made the right choice, wonders if swaying passively as the current pushes him around even counts as making any kind of choice.

It feels wrong, and when he falls asleep he feels more alone than he’s ever been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup. You made it! Seriously, congrats, I know it was rough. And THANK YOU if you trusted me enough to get all the way through it, you don't even know how much I appreciate it. <3
> 
> I really really hope that what is shown in this chapter helps you guys get into Cas's head a little bit, and truly see it for the messy, guilt-ridden, place that it is. It doesn't justify him for certain choices he's making, but at least it can provide an explanation as to *why* he thinks the way he does. 
> 
> I know this story is going through a seriously rough patch and the angst is being very heavy; I can promise that it won't all be for nothing, both boys will grow from this.  
> That said, if you have questions or concerns, please feel free to bring them up, and I'll do my best to explain where I'm coming from with this <3  
> IT WILL GET BETTER I PROMISE!
> 
> A massive THANK YOU to all the amazing people who have been supporting me and this story, you guys made me cry for real (in a good way), and I'm so so grateful to know so many of you have joined me on this journey and that you care about this story as much as I do.  
> I'm both terrified and excited to hear your thoughts on this chapter, so really, if you decide to leave a comment, I will love you forevermore <3 <3
> 
> Here's [ my tumblr](https://flurryflair.tumblr.com/) if you wanna talk!


	16. Lisa - Dean POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As many of you predicted, after Cas's messy relationship, now we explore Dean's messy relationship! Lucky for you, Lisa is better people than Evan, so things won't be quite *as* painful this time, I promise <3
> 
> Just a note; this takes place as the same time chapter 15 does, it's an exact counterpart to it, so we pick up Dean right where we left him in chapter 14 (leaving Cas's hotel room).
> 
> With no further ado, toddlers, a pantry, and a wise son. Enjoy!
> 
> Lotsa love to [ tipofmemory ](https://tipofmemory.tumblr.com/) , and [ huckleberrycas ](https://huckleberrycas.tumblr.com/) for being awesome betas and people <3

He’s losing it. He has no control and he knows it. He’s a pinball; spinning, ricocheting, spiralling through bouncing lights, faster than he can see. Faster than he can understand.  
The car is moving, and yet it doesn’t feel like he’s the one controlling it, merely hanging tight as he’s bounced off from one corner of the quadrant to the other.

His heart is pounding so hard in his chest he starts wondering if there’s something genuinely wrong with him, so he makes himself breathe. In and out, blinking away the red-hot anger that seeps through his vision. He does it until he’s able to unclench his fingers from where they were wrapped tight around the steering wheel, until the rush finlly settles and leaves him tired and deflated.

By that time he’s stuck halfway through the 35. Traffic swims by, a sea of red and white blinking at him as he drives on.

He doesn’t listen to music, lets the silence drum in his head, loud and empty and painful, lets his thoughts swirl around him like a storm brewing.

It had been so easy to let himself get lost in Cas, the stunning way he looks when he lets go, the way his eyes always go a little wide in surprise whenever Dean touches him, like he can’t quite believe he’s so wanted. And Dean could get drunk on the memory of that look alone, and maybe that’s the problem.

Because Cas has a fiancé, one who’s ten times smarter than Dean can ever hope to be, one who now knows about the two of them. He’s heard what Cas said on the phone, the careless way he spoke about Dean, about the two of them. And Dean knew they were building something that was never meant to last, but hearing Cas dismiss it so easily cut deeper than he thought.

There’s a part of him that wants nothing but to turn the truck around and speed right down to Cas’s hotel, tear down the door, demand answers he ain’t even sure he wants to hear.

But it’s time for him to go home, to Kansas and its rolling fields and its plain sun and sleepy towns. To his family and May’s smile and Jack’s songs. Back to Lisa’s questioning stares.

The drive is long, and his phone keeps buzzing where it’s tucked into the sun-faded plastic of the console, texts and calls he’s not going to check. Too afraid that if he does he’s gonna U-turn straight out of his apple pie life.

He stops to piss at a gas station, and his reflection in the mirror looks like shit warmed over. There’s a red bruise at the base of his neck that’s the exact shape of Cas’s lips, sitting there like the ultimate mockery of his desires. He doesn’t punch the mirror, but he comes close.

He’s still sitting in the parked truck, trying to check the route on Google Maps. Apparently that’s a thing he does now that he doesn’t drive through five states on the regular, even though he’d be caught dead before he’d admit it to Sam.

That’s when Cas calls him for what feels like the hundredth time. And Dean is tired, his back aches from sitting at the wheel too long and his stomach growls aggressively where it’s still empty.

And maybe he’s gotten mellow with age, or maybe it’s just a Cas thing, but now that the anger is gone, he struggles to find a reason not to pick up. So he does.

Talking to Cas brings him the smallest of reliefs. A thin layer of ice over a gaping wound. Cas is frantic in his explanations, to the point that Dean only wants to take pity on the guy, say whatever he needs to say in order for him to stop falling over himself.

No matter what he says, this is still going to hurt like a bitch, ain’t no way around it for either of them. Because this is what you get when you start messing with relationships that shouldn’t be messed with. When you push, when you lie to yourself and tell yourself that it’s okay for you to have just this one thing.

By the time they hang up, there’s a swirling drain in the center of Dean’s chest. His emotions going round and round and then deep down, where he can’t ever hope to reach them.

All he knows is the shaky quality of Cas’s voice as he said he was sorry, and Dean believed him.

Or maybe he’s just too old to still be angry.

The road twists and turns and the interstate is as plain and boring as it’s always been. He looks at other cars around him, thinking they don’t know where he’s going, or where he’s coming from, what he’s done. Sins and graces lost in the dark grain of the asphalt for strangers to ignore.

Eventually the events of the day catch up to him, his eyelids drooping in a way that tells him it’s time to stop.  
The motel he finds is on the shittier side of things. Or maybe it feels that way after years of memory foam mattress and high count thread sheets that smell like him. The bed creaks and groans under his weight and he knows he’ll be waking up cold, with a twinge in his neck.  
There are water stains on the ceiling and he counts them, pretending to be fifteen again and stuck in a dump with Sammy snoring on the other side. He almost expects John to step out of the bathroom at any second, but the room stays still and quiet, only the low buzzing of the lights to remind him he’s by himself.

Texting back and forth with Cas almost makes him feel normal, even just for the handful of minutes it takes him to remember he shouldn’t be engaging in any of this at all.

Cas is easy like that sometimes, like they’ve always been doing this, like this is what they were supposed to be doing all along. He’s funny, in a sarcastic sort of way, not as innocent and clueless as Dean had always remembered him. Detached from the picture of his past self like he’s grown into a whole new person, one who’s just familiar enough for Dean to want to fall into his gravity, be pulled closer and closer until he can make out all the parts that are different and all the ones that are still the same.

The bed is as uninviting as the rest of the room but he makes it there eventually, pretends he’s not dragging his feet and picturing the softness of Cas’s expensive pillows. The firmness of his chest and the warmth of his hands.

Feet cold where they stick out from under the duvet, Dean tosses and turns, trying to carve himself a space in between the springs of the mattress. It takes him a long time to fall asleep, and when he does, it feels like there’s something missing.

Morning is relentless through the thin walls of the motel room, people talking and moving, suitcases shuffling about. His first thought is to wonder if Cas’s fiancé has made it to Austin, if they’re making up in this exact moment, just as Dean pisses in a yellowed motel toilet with the handle half broken.

_Not thinking about it_ , that has to be the rule today, he tells his reflection in the mirror.

He doesn’t think about it as he showers, doesn’t picture Cas’s hands fitting in the curve of some businessman’s expensive suit as he packs his own ratty shirts, definitely does not hear Cas’s voice saying Dean meant nothing to him over and over as he walks to the truck.

Music saves him once more, loud and brash, some rock station he’s not even sure has played anything from after the 80’s. He makes his hands drum on the steering wheel in rhythm with whatever song is playing. Texts Lisa he’ll be there by lunch time, foot lowered on the accelerator, telling himself the further he gets from Texas the easier it’ll get.

Like he’s tied to Cas with an elastic band, hooked right through his middle, tension mounting and mounting the more distance he puts, until it snaps, whipping right on his back, the recoil sending him stumbling down to his knees.

The sun is high in the sky by the time he makes it to Lawrence. Sky blue and gorgeous, one of those days he can almost believe everything will be okay.

It’s like the city hasn’t changed one bit since he left. He navigates through the same roads, glances at the same shop signs. It’s equal parts reassuring and disconcerting, like he’s not the same Dean who drove out of here months ago, like he cannot possibly fit right back in.

“Daddy!” a shriek welcomes him when he finally pulls into the familiar driveway of his and Lisa’s home. His very own brand of cream coloured standard slice of life. There’s no time and no intent to dwell on that, not when Jack’s tiny, chubby arms are reaching out to him, climbing his leg as he jumps down the truck.

Lisa is hot on his heels, a concerned frown shadowing a relieved smile. It’s bittersweet to see her and Dean pulls his son in, between the two of them. A shield of hurried chatter and chubby freckled cheeks.

He laughs as he hugs him and it’s genuine, it feels more real than anything else has felt these past few weeks. Heart so full he’s embarrassingly close to bursting, he rubs his eyes and pretends it’s because they’re dry after the long drive.

Lisa watches him with curiosity but he can see the kindness right below the surface. She hovers close enough for him to pull her close, but far enough that he doesn’t have to, like she’s leaving it up to him.

Feeling like he doesn't even deserve this much consideration, he steps towards her, unsure what to do, wanting to please her, wanting to be the good she sees in him.

He’s saved from making a choice when May comes barreling down the steps, hands fisted around way too many crayons, a rainbow of colors smudged on her plump cheeks.

She looks like she’s so excited to see him that she’s beyond words. Her little mouth is open like she’s about to talk, but can’t, so she just squeals and trots over to him, climbing on his leg with a dexterity he didn’t even know she possessed. He bends down and hoists her up with his free arm.

“I missed you Daddy!” May tells him when she’s finally found her voice again, hugging his neck tight, the crayons she was clutching in her hand now smudged against Dean’s cheek. Her voice is soft and raspy with happiness and Dean thinks her vowels sound better than the last time he saw her, and his heart shrinks a couple sizes with the thought.

“Missed you too, munchkins,” he whispers through a wet laugh, his eyes finding Lisa’s above the twins’ heads.

“Welcome back,” Lisa says, smiling as she steps closer, wrapping a hand around his arm in greeting. The touch feels familiar and foreign at the exact same time and he has to stop himself from recoiling a little.

“Hey Lis,” he croaks. And they both know he should lean over for a kiss, a greeting, just a brief press of the lips. But he doesn’t. He can’t. He shrugs and pretends it’s because he’s holding the kids and not because he’s stupidly, irrationally and yet deeply afraid that his mouth still holds the taste of Cas’s lips, the salt of his skin, and that Lisa would just _know_ something is different if she got close enough.

Arms full of squirming toddlers, he follows Lisa into the house, ears ringing where both kids are telling him all about the pictures they’ve been drawing and, “It’s MY birthday Daddy!” “No, it’s MY birthday! Mom! May is saying it’s her birthday!”

“It’s both you guys’ birthday, no fighting,” he grins, not even the squabbling bringing him down from where his happiness has ballooned him over the moon.

Lisa rolls her eyes, “Course they listen to you now,” she huffs, with the resigned frustration of someone who deals with three year olds all day everyday.

“Don’t worry, the novelty’ll wear off soon,” he tells her, and lets himself hold her questioning gaze after he says it. Like she wants nothing more than ask him if that means he’s staying for good, but doesn’t quite want to hear the answer. He can’t blame her.

They walk into the house, and the twins' words tangle together as they shout and jump and pull him into five different directions at the same time.

The house looks about the same since he left, all light wooden floors and blunt edges; a life smoothened out to make room for soft little creatures who are now turning three. The furniture he made is still displayed proudly all over the place, even though he’s told Lisa many times that she didn’t need to actually use what he considered first drafts.

The blades he had hung over the fireplace are gone, replaced by some sort of hanging succulent system, and honestly he can’t say he’s surprised. Lisa had hated the swords since he decided to put them up; fought him over them again once the twins were born. He doesn’t blame her for doing away with them now that he’s gone.

Maybe it should bother him more, the same way it used to, seeing his space changed without his input. It’s a strange detachment he feels now, like he walked out of this life and has no say in how things develop in his absence.

It almost feels like he’s living two separate lives, slipping the masks of two different Deans over his face.  
So much so that he struggles to believe him and Castiel, Jack and May, Ben and Lisa; that they all exist in the same universe. It feels as if they should be separated from each other, like they don’t belong together. Lines parallel, destined to never meet.

Or maybe _he’s_ the paradox, jumping between different dimensions. Somehow being the same man who laid under Castiel’s body, making himself open and pliant and letting him _take_ him; and also the same man who is getting ready for a birthday party with his kids in their suburban dream home.

“Kinda regretting the whole ‘let’s just do it in the backyard’ thing now,” Lisa says, interrupting his thoughts as they step into a messy kitchen, the counters practically invisible below piles of cupcakes and wrapping paper. There’s a line on Lisa’s forehead that she only gets when she’s really stressed out, and Dean instinctively runs a soothing hand up and down her stiff spine.

“Saved a whole bunch’a money though,” he points out, surveying the scene for any traces of sweet treats he can snag without it being noticeable.

There’s a box filled to the brim with tiny little red cupcakes, packed so tightly nobody would ever notice one of them gone.

“Don’t even think about it,” Lisa says, smacking him on the hand with a plastic spatula she has seemingly materialized out of thin air. The kids laugh and snicker at him, and for a moment it’s all so familiar, so _right_ , that his chest aches a little.

Lisa then banishes him from the kitchen with a stern look and a waving of her spatula, keeps pushing him out even when he protests he can bake a better cupcake than she does.

“You guys why don’t you ask Daddy about the gift he bought for you?” She says through the open kitchen door, and immediately her words are drowning in a sea of squeals and giggles and Dean’s pants are about to fall down as tiny fists grab at him.

“Well played,” he grumbles at her retreating back and lets himself get dragged to his truck, where the boat he made for the twins rests under a tarp.

It’s so easy to get dragged into their boundless enthusiasm; happiness and pride bubble warm in his chest once he starts putting the little wooden boat together under their watchful eyes. As soon as he’s done they climb in at the same time, pretending they’re pirates and demanding he pushes them.

It’s the perfect picture of a million and one Sunday afternoons, ones already settled in the past, ones still to come, ready for him to just reach out and catch them.

There’s the ringing of laughter and excitement in his ears, and he finds himself wishing Cas could hear it too. High-strung, tense Cas, who carries himself like he’s going to have to jump into a fight at any moment, defensive and guarded. What would it be, he thinks, to see him carefree and laughter loose, eyes wide to the twins’ demands, a grin on his lips, easy like summer.

The image is as delectable as it is painful, wanting it so deeply and yet knowing that it’ll never be within his reach. Dean snaps a picture of the kids on the boat to send to Cas later that night, when he won’t be able to pretend he doesn’t miss him anymore.

Soon he has to abandon his post to wrangle the kids into their birthday party outfits. May throws a screaming fit when she decides she needs to wear Jack’s shirt instead of her own dress. By the time they’re both stuffed into their respective clothes, Dean’s ears are ringing and his head is pounding, but the twins are looking both happy and adorable.

The backyard birthday turns out to be a hit in their neighborhood, and Dean’s senses are soon overwhelmed by the intensity of it all.

There are kids everywhere, and with them, their parents. Which translates into eyes staring, measuring his every movement, hands patting his back and beer bottles clinking in his hands. They hold questions in their eyes, sometimes on their lips, wondering if he’s back, wondering why he left in the first place. _If you only knew_ , he thinks, lips wrapped around the neck of a beer bottle so he doesn’t speak.

He shouldn’t drink, not at his toddlers’ damn third birthday party, but he can’t help the itch under his skin. The thrum of uncomfortable energy that vibrates through his core the longer he keeps mingling with people he couldn’t be paid to give a fuck about. He’d much rather be spending this time sprawled on the grass, his kids climbing on him and tumbling around.

It hurts Lisa, always has, his indifference to networking, to making friends with other families in their neighbourhood; it makes Dean nauseous, a sea of beige carpets and endless chatter about the weather and soccer tournaments and home improvements they desperately need his expert advice on.

He tries to skirt at the edges, blending in with the kids, but he never gets too far. Lisa’s hand sweeping warm on his sweaty back, her manicured nails digging into his forearm as she drags him into yet another conversation about raised flowerbeds, and _who’s gonna move in the fixer-upper down the street?_

It’s revenge for having left her alone to deal with it all for so long, and they both know it, the intricacies of a marriage well tested and now clear enough to both parties.

Dean feels guilty, so he tries. He talks to Steve and Katie about the leaky faucet in their master bathroom, and to Deborah about the weird clicking noise her Prius has been making. Tells them both that of course he can swing by to have a look at it, cause that’s who he’s supposed to be; easy-going, sunny, dependable little Dean, always ready to offer a smile and a wrench.

Every interaction is so rehearsed, so stilted, that it settles like a vine around his neck, making it harder and harder to suck in a breath.

Todd, the accountant from three doors down, approaches him to talk about his fishing trip and how he hasn’t seen Dean in a while and they should all join him and his wife at church next Sunday. “It can help if you’re having, you know, marital problems with the old ball and chain,” he whispers, shoulder leaning on Dean’s, like they’re in a secret club of shitty cheating husbands together, and they’re all gonna get fixed by telling about it to a God he knows isn’t listening.  
It makes bile rise up in his throat and he has to excuse himself, a hand loosening the buttons of his collar as he walks briskly back into the house.

It would have all been fine, he thinks later, breath burning in and out of his lungs, had he just made it into the house and to the one fridge stocked up with beer. But he doesn’t.

Jay stops him right on the patio, when he’s so close to the door he can practically taste the sweet relief of the air conditioning in his mouth.

“Dean-o, long time no see!” He says, slapping a hand on his back so hard he stumbles forward a couple of steps. Of all people to stop him, it had to be Jay.

Jay, who keeps insisting Dean joins his golf club, who leers at Lisa when he thinks he isn’t looking, who makes the same three dirty jokes at every single barbecue.

Dean has to swallow the dislike down before he can speak, sticky and thick in his throat.  
“Yeah , uh- been working down south, but I didn’t wanna miss the birthday, y’know,” he says, hand turning sweaty on the doorknob, legs twitching like he’s a cornered animal wanting nothing more than to run.

“I gotta say. Can I be honest here?” Jay asks, and then keeps talking without even waiting for a nod in response. It looks like Dean isn’t escaping anytime soon. “The boys and I, after you left, we never thought we’d see you round here again. You were the one who got away with it!” His laughter is crass, an invite to a camaraderie that Dean already knows he won’t take part in. “You’ve gotta tell me what happened, you got a side piece but she got tired of your old ass too? That’s Todd’s opinion at least,” he snickers, red cheeks bouncing up and down on his clean shaved face.

Todd is glancing at him from where Dean made his escape just a minute ago, a knowing grin on his lips, like he knows exactly what they’re talking about and wants nothing more than to be a part of their conversation.

It’s even easy to picture, the three of them, in crisp white shirts, Bud Light growing warmer in their sticky hands, sitting around on a Sunday, pretending to watch football and complaining about their wives, like they’re nothing more than a commodity; their marriage something to bear through rather than cherish.

The air is growing thick and wet on him, the weight on his chest growing until it’s clogging his airways.

“I gotta uh- Sorry, I gotta take a piss,” he mumbles, voice rougher and shakier than he’d like.

The door slams open too loudly when he enters and he knows everybody is staring and he knows Lisa is gonna be pissed at him causing a scene, and fuck, he can’t _breathe_ to save his life.

The lights are too bright in his eyes, blood roaring in his veins like it’s trying to flood out of him all at once.

He stumbles through the hallway and into the kitchen, wanting nothing more than to just be away from the windows and the curious stares on the other side.

Somehow, the door of the pantry looks like the gates of Heaven to him right then, and he flings himself inside.

The tiny room welcomes him with a blast of cool air and a thick blanket of silence. In it, the whooshing sound of his heartbeat is even louder in his ears.  
It’s cold on the pavement when he slumps on it, body suddenly crumpling under an invisible weight.

If he could only take a breath in he would be fine, everything would be fine, he just needs to fucking breathe, how hard can that be?

It smells like spices and dried herbs in the pantry, it’s cluttered and messy, a stash of candy they keep hidden from the kids stacked high up in the shelves so they can’t see it. M&M’s, Skittles and Oreos; yellow and red and blue. He looks at them, counts them, over and over, like he used to do whenever John Winchester would come back home drunk and yelling. Making himself invisible, quiet and still, breaths measured, small and hidden. The walls of the pantry are shrinking around him, and he’s shrinking with them, until he’s nothing more than a small, scared kid, with no clue of what to do, how to get out.

It’s five, ten, he’s not sure how many minutes later that Ben finds him. Sees his father crouched over the rice bags in the pantry, where it’s silent and dark and nobody can see him. Head bent low between his knees as he tries to fill his lungs with enough air.

“Got fed up with the suburban dystopia in our yard?” Ben asks, five and half feet of teenage angst and wisdom, gangly limbs he’s still growing into, jeans ripped on his knees. His voice comes from a million miles away, and yet he’s seated right next to Dean.

Dean snorts, the sound coming out jagged and little breathless, as he tries to answer, string words into a coherent sentence, but nothing comes out.

“Yeah, me too,” Ben continues, gentle in an unassuming way that has always reminded him of Sam. He’s so grateful for this kid his heart could burst. He wants to ask him about his first semester, about that girl he always hangs out with and if he has managed to pass that stats course that was giving him grief the last time they spoke. Wishes he weren’t so afraid of finding out there’s resentment piled up at the bottom of his thoughts, for leaving, for missing his last four soccer games. So he stays silent.

“You know we’re okay, right?” Ben says all of a sudden, words explosive like they burst out of him without any warning.

When Dean turns around to look at him, he’s biting his lip, eyes wide, sincere and a little apprehensive.

“Ben, I-”

“I mean, like- we miss you, of course we miss you. I know Mom does, and the twins. But like, I dunno, for me, I would rather know that you’re happy somewhere else, than miserable right here. And I think - I know - Mom feels the same.”

There is a kind of surprise that leaves you without words, no breath in your lungs to solidify into sentences. That’s the kind of surprise that grips Dean now, tightly bound in his vocal chords, brittle and thin, like they’re gonna snap as soon as he opens his mouth.

“I- I don’t- Ben, ‘m not-”

“She’s been talking with that dentist guy. The one with the fancy car,” Ben interrupts him again “I guess you know about that?”

He didn’t, he doesn’t, and the sudden flick of jealousy and betrayal is soon extinguished by a cooling wave of pure, unrestrained relief. He can’t really complain, not in the position he’s put himself in, not with him leaving for months, dragging his feet about committing. Not with him falling so deep into Cas’s orbit, he can’t ever hope to get out.

The pantry is still silent and dark, standing ground for the slow and banal fallout of his marriage.

“Yeah, I- sure,” he lies. “Always seemed like a good enough dude.” He says, voice trembling in a way he can’t control.

Ben looks at him like he knows he’s bluffing, but the implications of calling him out on it are way too complicated for either of them to deal with.

So they let it be.

“I don’t think it’s serious, they went for like a coffee or something, and he came by a couple weeks back when the AC died off,” Ben amends, long fingers fiddling with the hole in his jeans. And now Dean remembers a vague mention in Lisa’s tentative voice, as he was busy in the shop, the sound of his hands sanding down a log drowning out her voice.

Had he been there this would have never happened. It’s hard to know if it’s for the better.

“That’s -uh, that’s good, that’s fine. Your mom and I, we ain’t doing that good to be honest with you, kiddo. She deserves to be happy.” He mutters, eyes on the dust balls under the cabinet, because he lacks the courage to actually look Ben in the eyes and tell him just how big of a failure of a father he is.

“So do you though,” Ben murmurs, his voice quiet but strong. “I just- I don’t understand why you guys don’t just call it quits. I mean, if it’s over, it’s over, that’s it. Just accept it and move on, I mean, why do the whole _pretending_ thing in the first place?” He says, an outburst of rolling words, one after the other. Once he’s done he looks about as taken aback as Dean feels.

They’ve never spoken to each other this openly, this directly, like they’re equals. There’s an instinct in Dean’s chest, a mounting, tickling irritation, like his own kid shouldn’t be talking to him like this, shouldn’t be judging him.

Suddenly Dean feels as small as the child he’s never let himself be. And there’s the image of one John Winchester, taunting him, smirking at his failures as a father. Like being a shitty parent is genetic and Dean was never gonna do any better than him, was never gonna gain the respect and admiration of a family that loved him for who he is, not for who they want him to be.

Ben is still looking at him expectantly, like this next moment, his next words, will forever determine the amount of respect they have for each other. There’s gravity in this moment, nestled in the grooves of the pantry, coating the whole room like a thick, unbreakable stain.

“Not your place to talk about these matters, you’re just a kid, you wouldn’t understand, show your father some respect, boy,” is what John Winchester would have said.

“I do really love your mom,” Dean says instead, because if there’s one thing he’s sure of, is that he might be a shitty father, but he won’t ever be the same brand of shitty his own dad was. “So it ain’t about pretending, not like you’re thinking at least. We just -uh, guess we just needed some time apart to really figure out if this is what we still want or not.”

“And it’s not, right? Or at least- not anymore?” Ben says it like he already knows the answer and Dean wishes he could find it in himself to correct him.

In the end, he’s saved from having to answer by Lisa entering the room, spotting the both of them crouched over the tiny and dark space of the pantry.

Ben only looks between the two of them for a second before he gets up, pats Dean on the back the way an old friend would, and leaves them alone.

“I’ll go check on the kids,” he says, like he isn’t one of them anymore, and Dean guesses maybe he isn’t after all, ripped jeans and awkward acne all the same.

“Things are winding down outside, finally. Guess the kids are all crashing from the sugar rush and parents are taking them home. Most folks are gone already, but a few people wanted to say bye to you. I guess that’s not happening?” Lisa asks, her heels clicking on the floor behind him.

He shrugs, leans back on his hands, legs stretched in front of him where they were getting pins and needles, or it’s maybe a dash of arthritis and he’s just kidding himself.

Lisa sighs, her breathing loud and right next to him. “Are we really doing this on the pantry floor, during our three year olds’ birthday party?” She asks, equal parts annoyance and resignation, like she’s already ready to settle on the floor next to him.

“We doin’ this whenever we wanna do this, Lis. Least it’s quiet here. If I have to listen to Todd retell his postman joke for the hundredth time Imma shoot myself in the head for real,” he says, voice a little quiet and a little tentative. He’s not sure what doing this even means at this point. Not sure he knows the people who will come out of the other side once they’re done with this conversation.

A whooshing sound sweeps over his ears as Lisa gathers the fabric of her dress to sit next to him on the pantry step.

The dress she’s wearing is a beautiful deep green, one that reminds him of the forest in the summer, big white flowers dotted all over, petals long and twisty, kinda like the flowers blooming outside his window back at Garth’s cabin in Texas. Dean remembers the way Cas’s eyes had gone wide at the sight of them, the way his tattooed back had stretched towards the window to touch the dirty glass. The rasp of his voice as he told him all about the pollination rotation of those flowers, his breath so warm on Dean’s chest.

He wonders if they’re dead now, if there’ll be more blooming. He figures he should ask Cas when he gets back.

His thoughts swallow him so deep that he barely hears the words Lisa utters next.

“Is there someone else?” She asks, and she’s not looking at him, profile proud and straight, gaze planted right between all the boxes of cereal.

He thinks about lying, thinks about telling her no, there isn’t anyone else and he’s committed, he’s coming back, there isn’t anything in the world he wants more than staying where his family is. Where _she_ is.

Then he pictures Cas and the way he smiled when he saw the magnolias white on the tree.

“Yeah,” he says, on the tail end of a sigh, all the air in his lungs rushing out of him so fast it leaves him breathless and dizzy.

Lisa’s left eyebrow twitches, her mouth folds into a straight, sad line, shoulders slumped in defeat. For a moment she’s silent, dark hair falling in rivulets around her face, on her shoulders. Dean wants nothing more than to brush it off, to say it’s all okay, everything is going to be fine.

“I want to say I’m surprised, but honestly? I’m not, not really.” She says eventually, and she doesn’t sound angry, only sad, resigned.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because what can he say? There’s no manual for how to break a marriage wide open, no easy to pick list of options for how to tell your wife that you’ve fallen down a lake so blue it feels like the sky itself.

She doesn’t shrug his apology off. “Yeah, me too,” she says instead, and she faces him then, eyes black, brimming with tears. There’s a trembling smile on her lips, her lipstick is cracking a little and Dean should tell her to reapply it because he knows she hates when that happens; it makes his chest _ache_ , knowing that he won’t be there to do that for her.

It feels as if his heart is breaking but slowly. A steady, soft and yet unstoppable force that shatters him from within. And it does so so slowly and so finely, that it makes no sound; tiny little shards of ice bursting inside of his chest suddenly, sinking a million places in his flesh, with a finality that leaves no doubts.

His face is cold where there are tears leaking from his eyes, and he can’t blink them away. Lisa rests her head on his shoulder, and it fits just as right as it always has

He holds her body close then, because it feels like that says words he can’t really bring himself to say yet. She goes, soft and willing and just as lovely as he remembered. Her hair still smells like jasmine when he sinks his nose into it and buries his apologies in her neck once more.  
It becomes wet with his tears but she doesn’t complain, clings onto him just as fiercely, like she knows that once she lets him go it’ll be for good.

“I love you,” he tells her then, because it’s true, it’s always been true. It burns inside of him like one of those old furnaces, wrung metal and polished plates and popping logs, the smell and the feeling of home all wrapped into this one tiny person that fits easily in his arms. “I’ll always love you, you know that, right?” he adds, because if there’s one thing he needs to make sure of, is that Lisa knows, that he doesn’t hate this life, that he appreciates everything they have built together, sweat and tears and many sleepless nights spent holding each other.

“I know,” she whispers, her voice wet, “I love you too,” and the way she says it is so sad, so knowing, Dean wants to do nothing but take the pain away, fix it for her in a way that makes it stop hurting. “Maybe- I know there’s someone else, but maybe, if we love each other, maybe we can make it work,” she says, pushing away from his chest. The mascara is smudged down the left side of her face, and her lips are trembling, eyes wide like he holds all the answers.

“Lis, I wish that was enough, but you know-” he stammers and her eyes drop back down like he has just cut the strings off all her hopes. It only adds to the bruising pain in his chest.

“I know, I know, I just-” she sighs, wipes her nose with the back of her hand, “I miss you,” and her voice breaks and Dean wants to take it all back, go back to ten years before and make it right this time around. “Things were good for a while, I guess I- I guess sometimes I wish they could just go back. Like, I can’t figure out what changed, when, what did _I_ do, what did _you_ do that changed it, you know? Like if I figure out where we went wrong then maybe we can go back and make it right again,” she says it all in one breath, like the words are heavy on her tongue.  
“It’s stupid, I know.”

“Lis, come on, it’s not stupid. You know how many times I’ve thought the same? Countless. But I just figured that there was a reason why I kept staying away, why I never made it back here. We’ll always have the family we built, we’ll always have each other. I just think- I think we’d make each other happier if we let each other go,” he says, and he can’t help but cradle her hand into his, like if he just warms her palms enough she’ll understand, she’ll see, she’ll forgive his shortcomings.

She just sighs, slumping against him. “Yeah, I- uh, I think so too.” It feels final, but maybe that’s a good thing this time around.

She bites her thumb as she says it, the way she has always done and has always driven Dean crazy.

He’s surprised when he looks at her and feels no resentment, no anger. All the little things that made him feel like he was slowly suffocating, all the little gestures that are so intrinsically _Lisa_ and drove him mad, now seem nothing more than nostalgic remembrances. He looks at them fondly, and it both matters and doesn’t at the exact same time.

Kissing her isn’t as much of a decision as it is an instinct. He does it and he doesn’t really think about it, sustained more by muscle memory than anything else. Her lips are warm under his, smooth. She tastes like strawberry and mint and her gloss is sticky on his own lips. It doesn’t go deeper, doesn’t turn sensual, and he guesses they both know it’s the last one they’ll ever share. Foreheads touching, they hold onto each other.

“You know, I was gonna be real mad at you,” Dean watches her as she builds herself back up. “I made a list of all the stuff I’d tell you off for, ‘s on my phone and all,” she laughs mirthlessly, “but now you’re here, and the kids are happy, and I just- I don’t have it in me. I’m not mad at you, Dean. I don’t think I could hate you if I tried. I think- deep down, we both knew this life wasn’t the one you wanted, and we only have ourselves to blame for letting it go as far as it did.”

His voice shakes when he speaks. “I’m grateful for what we built. I need you to know that, Lis. I’d give my _life_ for any of you, wouldn’t think twice. It’s just- everything else I can’t deal with.” He sighs, gesturing to the window and everyone who might still be lingering outside. “I’m sorry. I wish I was what you needed.”

“I know you do. It’s okay.”

They sit on the cold tiles of the pantry a while longer, arms around each other, Dean’s hand rubbing slow up and down her spine, Lisa’s hand steady on his flank. They talk about schools and Dean moving out for good and leaving some space in the closet. Texas is mentioned a few times, and Dean has to agree that it’s a little too far for comfort, at least until the twins are still so little.

It’s as calm of a discussion as they’ve had in years and Dean marvels at it, at the fact that they’re able to reach out to each other now that they’ve established a common ground they didn’t even know was there.

Ben comes to find them a while later and mercifully says nothing about their red rimmed eyes and runny noses. When the twins spot him they hug him extra tight and it’s a close call, but Dean manages not to cry all over again.

“So who is she?” Lisa asks him that night, when he’s washing the dishes as she takes all the decorations inside.

He has to think for a moment before he finally figures out exactly what she’s referring to. Arms full of soapy suds, he wipes at his forehead to try and hide the blush that immediately spreads all over his face. It doesn’t really help.

When he glances at Lisa her eyes are curious and not judgemental.

“It’s a- I mean- There’s no, no she. He’s a- he’s a he, y’know, a male, a dude. Some- _guy_ ,” he finishes lamely, and if he could drown himself in the murky water of his kitchen sink right now he absolutely would. He’s still contemplating how awful it’d feel to be strangled by the trash compactor when Lisa enters his field of vision again.

“Some guy?” She asks, her right eyebrow quirked so high on her forehead it almost disappears into her hairline.

The fire on his skin just gets worse under her scrutiny. “I mean, not _some_ guy, like- a guy. A guy I knew before, long time ago,”

“I really wanna say I’m surprised, shocked, would have never expected this, but, to be honest, I always kinda wondered about you,” she says, and her smile is kinder than he deserves.

He splutters “Me? No. I mean, kinda, I guess. But I didn’t- I mean, _before_ , I never did anything, I-”

“Dean, calm down, I know, I wasn’t insinuating that, it’s okay,” she says, hands raised in defense, placatingly. “This is a little weird, isn’t it,” she adds then, “talking like we’re just friends. Maybe we’re not there just yet.”

“Yeah, I guess. But I- I do want you to be that, for me, it doesn’t have to change. I still wanna tell you stuff, still wanna hear about your stuff, you know.”

She smiles and starts drying dishes right next to him.

“So I hear you’ve been seeing some dentist guy” he says eventually, doesn’t even flinch when she hits him with the damp towel.

Later, when they’re putting everything away in the garage, she pushes the tarp off of the Impala.

“Maybe it’s time you took her back, ” she grins, “Wouldn’t mind actually having storage space, you know.”

And Dean doesn’t even care about the little jab, because all he can see is his baby, gleaming under the Texas sun, Cas folded right next to him, where he belongs.

“Yeah, I think you’re right,” he says, and for the first time in a long time, it feels like they’re really going to be fine.

When he settles down in the guest room later that night, emotionally wrought but lighter, he finally sends Cas that picture he’s been stalling on the whole day. The one where he’s smiling huge and his happiness is reflected in his kids faces too. He wonders what Cas will think of it, if it’ll make him smile. He hopes it finds him cozy in his huge bed, and that maybe he misses Dean’s body curled right next to him.

He aches for him with every breath he takes, but tonight it somehow feels different. There’s hope bubbling through, pepper hot and bright. Because Dean will always be a father, but he isn’t going to be a husband anymore, and the lump that’s been residing in his throat since the beginning finally eases up a little.

It doesn’t have to mean anything, but Dean knows it _could_. He thinks he’d really like it to.  
He thinks he owes it to Cas to show him how, whatever happens, Dean is ready for it, wide open and hopeful.

_We should talk_

That’s all he texts, because there’s so much more he wants to say, but he’s old enough to know when he’s only got one shot left. He’s gonna make it right, lay all his cards on the table, show Cas how good things could be if they let them.

He hopes Cas is as ready as he is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HA! Bet you didn't expect all that *hopefulness* at the end there, did ya? Well, take it and enjoy it folks, because there's a bunch more angst coming before the end. I'll just say that the next chapter is 9k and about 98% angst.
> 
> And speaking of next chapter, I know some people are gonna be disappointed, but I have to skip posting next week. Next chapter IS ready, and the story IS almost done, but I decided to change some things around in a couple chapters, and I need some extra time to properly set everything up. I care about this story a lot, I want it to be the best it can be, so I really don't want to rush it, I hope you guys will understand!  
> I'll be back the week after with a monster chapter, like I said, 9k, and I hope I won't have to take any more breaks after this one.
> 
> Immense, gigantic, infinite THANKS to everyone who commented on the last chapter, you guys made me CRY. I can't tell you how much it means to me that you're supporting this story and understanding where I'm going with it all.  
> I seriously love you all a whole lot, I'm a little behind in answering comments but I'll get to every single one, promise <3  
> I tried my best to portray a realistic relationship here, and I'm dying to know what you guys thought of the dynamic between Lisa and Dean. If you leave a comment you have my heart! <3
> 
> Here's my [ my tumblr](https://flurryflair.tumblr.com/) if you wanna scream at me there!


	17. Pine green - Cas POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK! I missed you guys a lot, and I'm hoping so so much everybody is still around to see how this mess ends. 
> 
> This chapter is really important, really long, and really rough. Really, my heart is pounding right now, cause I am *so* anxious for you to finally read it, and I hope you'll get everything I was trying to say with this <3
> 
> !!!!!WARNINGS!!!!!: full on panic attack, some derealization, self esteem issues, anxiety, depressive like state.
> 
> So here we go, a decision made, the impala, the color green. See you guys on the other side <3
> 
> As usual, big thanks to [ tipofmemory ](https://tipofmemory.tumblr.com/) , and [ huckleberrycas ](https://huckleberrycas.tumblr.com/) for listening to me whine about this chapter for the longest time!

There’s silence in the aftermath of Evan’s departure, and in that silence the only words Castiel keeps hearing in a loop are “we should talk”.

It’s kind of ironic, considering Dean never even spoke them outloud.  
And yet Castiel can hear it so clearly, like Dean had whispered it right in his ear. Somehow his voice, even when imaginary, has depth, a different texture than Evan’s.

The words reverberate in the silence of his room, and Castiel finds himself wishing he had picked a less luxurious hotel; one where the walls are paper thin and you can hear the people next door arguing, snoring, living. Proof that there’s humanity, other successes and other struggles beyond the bounds of your own.

This room is isolated, insulated. He can watch the city bustle under him if he peeks through the curtains, but he can’t hear it. It’s like being inside an aquarium, like he’s only there to swim in circles, repeating the same tired patterns over and over again, until people get bored of watching him try.

Something claws at his throat. Something heavy and barbed that starts in his chest and blisters all the way up. Like he swallowed a hot coal and his body is now trying to spit it back out.  
It’s a strange grief, like he’s never experienced before, the burning pain of mourning something he hasn’t lost yet, of not knowing how to hold on without searing his palms.

He tortures himself, wondering what Dean is doing right then. If he’s curled up safe in his wife’s bed, holding her to his chest, promising to make things right again. Or maybe he’s putting his kids to bed, remembering all the reasons why he should go back home to them.

He wonders if he’ll tell Lisa about him, if she’ll hate him without even knowing him. She’d have a right to, and Castiel knows it.

He wishes he could tell her it’s okay, that he never meant for things to get this complicated, that he’s sorry.

Maybe they should have talked about things earlier. Because now, in between all the unspoken words, doubts are free to sprout, take root. And yes, Dean’s coming back to Austin, but he’s not coming back to _him_.

Reality hits square in the chest.

Dean is going to leave.

Dean was always going to leave.

He doesn’t want Dean to leave.

He struggles to think of something else, _someone_ else, he has wanted this strongly before, and isn’t surprised when he doesn’t find it.

And yet it doesn’t matter, none of it matters. Because he already told Evan he’d go back to California, because he owes Evan to try, after everything they’ve been through together, after everything Evan has _sacrificed_ for Castiel to be happy, to fulfill his dreams.

Guilt trickles down his throat slow, thick and syrupy, and it feels like his body won’t be able to contain it all.

The new prescription Evan got for him sits on the nightstand, right where he left it. Castiel looks for a reason not to reach for it, but he comes up empty handed.

If there’s anything he should take away from this whole experience, it’s how he’s still not to be trusted to make decisions for himself.  
That there’s something warped in him, something that got twisted back when his Father created him and was never set right.

Other people can see it, Evan can see it, and he supposes it was only a matter of time before Dean saw it too. Not good enough at being an angel, not good enough at being human either.

It doesn’t matter.

The instructions on the bottle say to start with one pill, so he fishes two out and swallows them dry. That should knock him out hard enough for his head to stop pounding, for his fingers to stop itching with the need to call Dean, beg him to hold on and never let him go.

Sleep settles over him fast, thoughts slurred into blank dreams he won’t remember.

It’s late when he wakes up, midday sun stubbornly making its way through the curtains, heavy and too hot on his eyelids. It takes him a while to climb out of bed, his head heavy like it’s full of sand. He had forgotten the cottony feeling of a pill-induced sleep.

The whole day passes in a blur, going through the motions and not being sure how or why. He isn’t sad, and he isn’t happy either. He knows, because he’d been feeling happy, sun warm and sleepy and between Dean’s arms in the cabin, and this isn’t even close.

It’s strange, to feel so little all of a sudden, when he had been inflamed with so many feelings just days before. The difference is so obvious, he has to wonder if the whole thing with Dean was merely a symptom of his ill brain.  
He doesn’t want it to be, can’t fathom relegating Dean to a mistake, a chemical unbalance.

Eventually Evan calls him with the company number and tells him to put on his blue suit, look contrite but professional, and make a video message explaining to everybody why he’s leaving. He says he has already written an official statement for Castiel to read from, so he has nothing to be nervous about.

Suit clad and speech ready, Castiel does get nervous.

Evan facetimes him so he can watch Castiel record the video and make sure he’s not messing it up. “Don’t get so agitated, Castiel, you knew what was going to happen when you signed. This is exactly why you’re having to take a step back.” Evan sighs when Castiel voices his worries to him. “Why don’t you take one of those pills I got you, it'll make you feel better. You don’t want to leave a bad impression on your employees, do you?”

He doesn’t, of course he doesn’t. He doesn’t want the thick fog of the pills over his head either, but he guesses that’s the lesser evil, so he obeys.

By the time Castiel’s sitting in front of his laptop camera he feels like all his anger, his anguish, have been scooped out of him. But there’s nothing in their place, no lingering sadness, no satisfaction, nothing. It feels surgically clean inside his chest, sterile.

He guesses it’s for the best.

The video feed is slow to load, and he fidgets in the meantime, until a hard look from Evan’s side of the screen tells him to stop it. So he does.

“Good morning everyone, as you all know, I am Castiel Novak, co-founder and CEO of Green Grace.” The statement starts, “I know many of you have been wondering about my whereabouts and even, in some cases, my wellbeing. It’s to answer those questions that I am recording this video today.” His heart thuds in the empty cavity of his chest, once he says this, there’s no going back. “I am officially announcing to you all my resignation as CEO of this company.” There, he said it.

It feels like nothing; shapeless sounds without consequence. Evan clears his throat, urging him to go on. The words on the paper look blurry now, and he wonders why. “Unfortunately the pressure of being in this role proved to be detrimental to my mental health, and I decided it was time to take a step back. My sole priority has always been and will always be the success of this company, and everyone who works in it. As such, the best thing for me to do is to sign off my shares to the board, and trust them to enforce whatever decision they deem best for the future of Green Grace.” His hands shake where he’s gripping the paper too tightly but it’s out of frame, so it’s okay.

He lowers his eyes and keeps on reading the words that were so carefully selected for him.  
“I know this news will be surprising for many of you, but I would like to assure you that I will keep working alongside everyone else, and you can come to my office for anything you might need. I just won’t be covering as much of an official role.” That wasn’t in the script but he added it anyway. He needs to make sure his people won’t doubt that he will keep being there for them when it matters.

“Mr. Evan Winchell will be the de facto face of our company and I trust his judgment fully, and I ask you all to do the same. We have a bright future here at Green Grace, thanks to the hard work of everybody involved, and I am convinced this change will be for the better.” He takes a deep breath and his voice somehow cracks in the middle.

“Thank you for your support in this time of change, I will be back to work as soon as my- my condition allows it. You can direct any questions you may have to Mr. Winchell, thank you for your time.”

Once it’s done he stares at the feedback picture of himself on the screen. He looks like he’s gonna be sick. He feels like he’s gonna be sick.  
He blurts to Evan that he has to go, before slamming his laptop closed and sprinting to the bathroom.

Suddenly his stomach is trying to climb out of his body and he’s throwing up. It’s painful, but doesn’t last. Mainly because there’s nothing for him to throw up, as he realises he hasn’t eaten anything yet.

Defeated, he sits back on the cold tiles, his head between his knees. He sits there for a minute, or maybe five, and there is water leaking from his eyes but it doesn’t feel like tears.

He wishes he didn’t exist.

It doesn’t work, because after an hour, he’s still there. His head feels light and his lower back is killing him.

The suit is stuffy so he makes it out of it, flinging the pieces wherever they land, because they don’t matter either.

**> DEAN (RECEIVED 1:47pm)**   
**> Driving off late tonight**   
**> Gotta take a few to nap first cause the drive is gonna kill me**   
**> But I can pick you up tomorrow night? We can talk?**

There must be something very wrong with Castiel, because there’s nothing more he would like than to nestle in the circle of Dean’s arms and soak up all the good things he has to offer.

_< DEAN (SENT 2:38pm)_   
_< Yes. Tomorrow is fine._

There’s so much more he wants to say. Wants to call Dean, beg him to drive straight to his hotel, climb into his bed still smelling like birthday cake and the road.  
Wants to keep his mouth under his own long enough that they’ll forget they have to talk in the first place.

But he can’t do that.

He knows Dean spent the weekend with his family, with his wife. Plunging himself back into the routine of his old life, like Castiel did too. And old habits, familiar faces, they have a way of dragging you back, reminding you of all the reasons why you did certain things, why you made the choices you made.

It surely worked that way for him, and he can’t imagine it being any different for Dean. Not when he has children he loves more than his own life, a family he so carefully built for himself, far away from the dangers of his past. Far away from Castiel.

And Castiel can tell himself Dean is tired of his bland life as much as he wants, but deep down he knows he won’t ever be able to give Dean what he needs and deserves.  
He’s too weak, much too weak. A ghost of the man he fooled Dean into thinking he was; someone who’s there to hold him up, someone who is fearless and strong.

He wonders what Dean will say, when he cuts it off with Castiel. If he’ll have a rehearsed speech ready to go, or if he’ll fumble with his words the way he does when he’s nervous. He wonders if it’ll hurt, for Dean to walk away.

He loves him so much that he hopes it doesn’t. Hopes that Dean will be fine, the way he has been all these years without him. That he’ll slide right back next to his wife, take his old seat at the table and grow grey with someone who can give him everything Castiel can’t. Someone who can love him the way Castiel wishes he could.

And maybe he can spare Dean the pain of being the one to walk away. Because, no matter how hard Dean tries to hide it, he’s gentle, and kind, and he never wants people to suffer needlessly.  
Yes, Castiel decides, Dean deserves to walk away knowing that Castiel is the bad guy, because he _is_. He knows Evan expects him to go back to California, and maybe they won’t get married, but Evan is all Castiel knows, all he’s known for so long. Day in and day out, through university and a startup and a house in the hills, he’s become the sure center Castiel built his life around, and he doesn’t know what he’ll be left with if he walks away. He’s too scared to find out that it’s nothing.

So it’s going to be fine, he tells himself. He’ll cut it off with Dean before Dean can cut it off with him.  
Castiel will take a deep breath, like he used to do when he practiced his dissertation, look Dean in the eye and be calm, rational about the whole thing.

He’ll tell him about Evan and how Castiel has chosen him, and he’ll tell him that before Dean can say that he has chosen Lisa. Before Dean can tell him he’s leaving because Castiel isn’t enough, has never been enough.

He won’t tell him he feels as if he’s sinking slowly, caught in moving sands, and the more he tries to wriggle out of it, the deeper he falls. So it’s best to just let himself sink.

He won’t tell Dean he loves him, though he does. Won’t tell him he understood what spring really feels like only when they experienced it together. Won’t say that there’s a dark place inside his chest that just aches and burns all the time, and Castiel thinks it’ll fester slowly, the further away he is from Dean.

Dean doesn’t deserve to bear the weight of Castiel’s mistakes. He deserves better.

Just like that, the decision is made.

It doesn’t feel sterile in Castiel’s chest anymore, and it hurts. A pulsating, throbbing pain, that pinches his nerves and swells in his lungs.

The hours in between making the choice, and actually carrying it out, they don’t matter.  
It’s a pile of grey hours, weightless minutes where he showers, eats and sleeps . Where he nods at the mirror and he pretends he can do this.

He can go on with his life, knowing what Dean Winchester tastes like, knowing how his face scrunches up in pleasure and what his breathing sounds like when he's asleep.  
The tide of his breathing as it comes crashing on Cas’s own chest, the way it raises goosebumps all the way down to his heart.

Finally, Dean calls to say he’s downstairs. Castiel walks on legs that shake and he doesn’t even tell himself he’s going to be fine, because he knows he won’t believe it. There's a prickling static at the tips of his fingers, like panic is slowly seeping through him, and Castiel needs to be calm, clear-headed. He hesitates on his way out, glancing at the pill bottle on the nightstand, torn between their promise of peace and his need to stay sharp.

In the end, he decides to leave them there. If this is the last time he sees Dean, he needs to remember it, doesn’t deserve to soothe the pain it’ll bring.  
He rushes himself out the door, not letting himself regret it, as he walks down to the lobby.

It’s there that Castiel sees the first surprise of the night.

Because this time Dean’s not waiting for him outside, leaning against his truck. He’s not wearing some combo of worn shirts and jackets. He’s waiting by the golden doors of the hotel, wearing a suit jacket and dress pants, his shoes clean and shiny.

He’s pacing a little and his mouth moves like he’s been biting his lip. He stops in his tracks when he spots Castiel and the smile he’s graced with then is a sheepish and nervous one.

All of Castiel’s resolutions shatter down to the ground. God, the things he’d do to keep Dean smile at him just like that.

His own smile is shaky when he meets Dean’s eyes.

“Hello Dean,” he manages, because Dean’s stepping even closer and he’s getting lost in the fluid way he moves all over again.

“Hey Cas,” Dean smiles, and Castiel notices he’s shaved too, his cheeks looking smooth and clean. And Castiel knows he wouldn't feel even the softest hint of stubble if he kissed him now.

“You um- you look good,” he dares, because it’s true. Dean looks like he could be starring in a Hollywood movie.

“This old thing?” he jokes, but he can’t fight the blush that spreads red on his cheeks. “Put on the first rag I found, I swear.” And then he winks and Cas’s knees suddenly feel weak.

He can’t think of anything else to say then, just follows Dean to his car, maybe lets his hand linger a little when Dean offers his arm, even though he shouldn’t.

Dean has always been a beautiful man. He was beautiful in the midst of an Apocalypse, his grace and his beauty a stark contrast to a world that kept trying to die, rotting away under their eyes.  
He was beautiful despite himself, despite wanting to be anything but, his delicate traits buried under a tough front, so thick it was hard to see the grace underneath it all.  
He was beautiful, spread out in Castiel’s bed, all tanned skin and freckled cheeks.

But he’s never been more beautiful than tonight, a little bashful and nervous, shoulders stretching the rich material of his suit jacket, smile quirked at the corner, nestled between his dimples.

He looks striking, the maroon suit complementing his traits in the most flattering way, face shaved and hair groomed.

The very picture of him, a Greek god coming down to earth for a leisurely stroll amongst humans, it licks fire all over Cas’s skin.  
How Castiel is supposed to walk away from him, he has no idea.

They step out, and Castiel is shocked to see the Impala gleaming in the evening lights, sleek and impressive as Cas has always remembered, maybe even more so.  
“Got her back,” Dean grins, bouncing on the balls of his feet just a little, his childlike excitement making him even more endearing. It’s like Castiel’s been dropped into an alternate reality, one where the young Dean, the one he knew so long ago, somehow grew into his own skin so seamlessly it’s like he never left.

A tendril of nostalgia curls tentative somewhere inside his chest. It pushes down, tries to lay down roots, bloom into actual sorrow; for the things that were, and for all the things he already knows won’t be. But Castiel’s insides are barren once more.

Soon even the nostalgia shrivels and dies out, nothing to replace it.

Castiel is aware he hasn’t said anything, but it doesn’t seem to deter Dean at all. They climb into the Impala, and Dean does an awkward little run around the car, like he was gonna open Cas’s door for him.

They listen to music as Dean drives them to a fancy restaurant downtown, and Castiel watches his hands curling around the steering wheel. They find surprisingly decent parking, and Dean gloats all the way to the restaurant. The place he guides Castiel to is one of those that’s all soft glowing light bulbs and pristine tables for two. He’s never been to a place like this with Dean, would never have guessed he would enjoy such a thing.

_He’s letting you down gently_ , a wicked voice inside of him says. He believes it.

They order an appetizer that’s way too small to share, much to Dean’s clear regret. He side-eyes the carefully styled greens on the plate and then pretends to be innocent when Cas calls him out on it.

It’s easy to forget what’s about to happen; it’s easy to let himself fall into Dean and the way his eyes glitter under the bright lights.

They talk, but of nothing substantial, and there’s a thrumming tension in the air between them that makes Castiel want to reach out and shatter it in a million pieces.

He doesn’t say anything, makes himself eat dishes that feel better in his eyes than in his mouth.

A smile breaks through the fog of his thoughts when Dean talks about the twins climbing into the boat he made them at the same time, the joy and pride in seeing them enjoying it. Dean rambles on, about the party in their backyard, about Ben and how he’s all grown up. He doesn’t mention Lisa directly, but Castiel feels her presence just out of frame in every anecdote.

Food sours in Castiel’s mouth when he thinks of her, a swirling mess of guilt and resentment he can’t even begin to unravel. For having Dean in ways he never will, for taking him back.  
 _I hope you’ll cherish him_ , he wishes he could tell her _, I hope you deserve him._

The dinner eventually ends, and even though Castiel insists on splitting the check, Dean brushes him off and hands off his credit card. “You can get the next one maybe,” he tells Castiel, and he blushes, like he wasn’t really supposed to say that.

_There won’t be a next time_ , Castiel realizes, and the fight rushes out of him all at once.

“You feel like walking?” Dean asks him once they’re out of the restaurant. The air is pleasantly warm, the city is twinkling all around them, and Dean looks hopeful so Castiel says yes, of course.

Dean’s mouth ticks upwards and Castiel feels another blow chipping away at his resolution. He never knew doing the right thing could feel so devastatingly painful.

So they walk, Dean leading them into an easy stroll, and it turns out that the park Castiel had always looked over from his hotel room, is as lovely at dusk as he imagined it to be.  
Or maybe it’s the effect of Dean’s presence right next to him, the swaggering ease of his body as he walks alongside Castiel.

The evening is peaceful, there are people and dogs and Castiel feels overdressed in his suit, but Dean’s overdressed too, so that makes it kind of okay.  
Their hands brush together as they walk, and Castiel lacks the strength to stuff them into his pockets.

Silence buzzes between the two of them, like it’s nudging Castiel to say something.  
He doesn’t.  
He looks at the trees and the people and Dean’s profile against the tall buildings in the background.

Maybe it’s the cowardly way, but he’s going to wait for Dean to bring it up, stretch this mellow feeling between the two of them as far as it’ll go.

“So, did you- uh, did you like those pictures I sent?” Dean asks at one point, smiling. Castiel somehow smiles back at him.

“Yeah, they were lovely, Dean. You- I’m happy you have them,” he replies, because he wants Dean to know it’ll be okay.

“Yeah. Uh- me too,” Dean’s eyes look sad, but maybe that’s just a trick of the light.

They keep walking, the sound of feet crunching gravel rhythmic and soothing, until Dean gestures to a bench a little to the side.  
It’s a good spot, just a bit far off the main path, close enough to the water that they can hear it flow, far enough from downtown that they can see it glittering in the distance.

It’s as good a place as it gets to be let down, Castiel thinks.

He sits, even takes care of leaving an appropriate amount of space between Dean and himself, knowing things will be different by the time they rise again.

Dean fidgets, wringing his long fingers together, worrying his lower lip with his teeth. He breathes in like he’s about to say something, but he ends up deflating every single time. Castiel’s hand must have a mind of its own because it sneaks towards Dean’s bouncing leg, landing heavy on the hill of his knee.

Dean stills. “Cas, I-” and that’s it, that’s the moment that will change all the ones after it. It’s the second right before everything falls apart, and Castiel isn’t ready.

As soon as Dean opens his mouth, his eyes wide and a little scared, Castiel can see the edge of the cliff, and he knows he’s supposed to take the plunge. His body locks down in panic, and it doesn’t even matter that it’s supposed to be empty inside him, because terror zings through him, ricocheting from one side to the other.

It’s a fear that feels primal, old, like he’s inheriting it from the people before him; the ones who saw the cliff too and had to jump. He feels _human_. More than he ever has before.

He sees it now, all of a sudden, the tether between them all, the very essence of human existence binding them together in a grasp that is both reassuring and suffocating. The universal experience of trying to squeeze just one more breath into your shriveling lungs, push one more beat out of a weak heart; the foolishness it takes to desire just one more second, one more eyeful of the sky, despite the pain, despite the finality of it all.

He thought he had accepted his humanity before, but he had never really understood it until now.

So he does the only thing he can think of, the thing he’s been wanting to do since he first laid eyes on Dean in front of those gleaming doors.

He surges on, a hand cradled at the back of Dean’s head, fingers caressing the soft strands.  
It doesn’t matter that it’s unfair, it doesn’t matter that it’s not going to fix anything. Doesn’t matter that it’s the wrong thing to do, because it’s the only one that feels right.  
Dean’s mouth is pliant beneath his, soft. He kisses back slow and sure, licks into Cas’s mouth like he hasn’t tired of the taste yet. His cheek under Cas’s hand is as smooth as he thought it would be.

Castiel feels as if he could cry.

“Hi,” Dean murmurs once they part, lips shiny and just a little bit swollen. His eyes are hooded and deep, Castiel can see the green of them even in the soft darkness.

Dean Winchester, just for a moment, just for him, is absolute. He's like the sky and sea and the earth, something that ever was and ever will be. A force Castiel has no more power over than he does over gravity.

He kisses him again, and Dean lets him; sighs into it soft and small, like there was never anything for him to do, no choice but to kiss back.  
Castiel wants to strip him bare and lay him down on the grass, roll in the dirt with him until the soil takes their bodies back, until they're one with it, with each other.

Then Dean slides back, a shrug of a movement as he angles his face away.

"Cas- Cas, wait," he rasps, lips shiny and red, "there's something I wanna say."

And Castiel already knows what it is, already knows it's the end.

"One more," he begs, and Dean only looks confused for a moment, before he complies without question, because of course he does.

Castiel tries to commit every last detail to memory, because he already knows he’ll be reliving this exact moment over and over in the future.

He would have thought a last kiss would have felt different somehow. Heavy and bitter and painful. But it doesn't, not this one.

Dean is still as soft and lovely as he always was, lets himself be kissed deeply and slowly, like they've got all the time in the world. When they part, his cheeks are flushed and lovely, his lips swollen and pink, eyes a little glazed over and darker than Castiel remembers them.

They shuffle on the bench and Dean's hand finds its way into his. It’s a little sweaty but Castiel doesn’t care, wishes he never had to let go.

"There's something I gotta say. I just- I know it's a lot, so uh, just lemme finish, okay?" Dean says as he rolls his shoulders back and he looks worried almost. Castiel wants to tell him he doesn't have to be, that he appreciates being let down so gently.

"So I'm, you know I was in Lawrence last weekend. Yeah. Me ‘n Lisa, we got to talking and we- I mean it's been a long time coming, honestly, but we decided for real now. And of course these things take time so it's not gonna be for a while, but-” His hand tightens around Cas’s and he looks straight at him, “We're getting a divorce. For real. And I- I know you're with your fiance, and you're in California and this whole thing is just batshit crazy, but.."

Castiel’s brain short circuits, a full on blackout that leaves him stunned and empty handed. Because Dean’s going off script, that’s not what he was supposed to say. He was supposed to tell Castiel he was going back to his family, because that’s what’s right, that’s the best thing to do. Because Castiel has a brain that doesn’t even work half the time; he’s a burden, and he doesn’t deserve this, doesn’t deserve Dean.

And it doesn’t matter what Dean is saying, because Castiel already knows better. The script is there for a reason, and it’s on him to enforce it. This is what he gets for being a coward.

"Dean. Dean, stop. I'm- I _have_ to move back to California. I can't- my life is there. That’s all I have," he says, voice cracking, because that's what he rehearsed, that's what he's supposed to say, isn't it? So why is it so hard to say it?

Dean leans into him, like he was ready for the response, like he already had a reply loaded in his throat. "I know that. I know it's complicated and- and honestly? It’s messed up. But maybe- Fuck,” he runs his free hand on his face in frustration, “maybe it’s so messed up because we just keep- I mean, Cas, we don’t talk about it. Any of it. And I get it, ‘course I do. I hate talking about this shit even more than you do.” He takes a deep breath and fully turns to face Castiel on the bench. His eyes are so big, earnest, Castiel couldn't look away if he tried. “But I figured, maybe that’s what we oughta do. Talk about it, all of it. I know where I’m at, but, man, I have no idea where you’re at. And that’s a problem.”

There’s so much Castiel could say then, the weight of this choice settles somewhere around his throat and refuses to leave.

He knows his mouth is open, he can feel the saliva drying slowly as he gapes at Dean, paralyzed between the words he wants to say and the ones he should be saying.

“Dean, I don’t- I can’t-”

Dean deflates a little, “Look, Cas, ‘s not like I’m saying anything’s gotta happen, alright? You’ve got a life and I- I respect that. It’s just-” He looks back down at the ground, his shoe making little circles in the dirt, “the last ten years have been long, man. You were right there with us, and then you weren’t, and I drove myself crazy looking for you for so long. Me and Sam, we- grieved for you.”

Castiel feels those words like a physical thing; a sharp blade wedged solidly in his chest. He hurt Dean even as he let him go. He failed him then as he is now.  
“I’m sorry, Dean, I’m so-”

“I know, Cas, I know, ‘s fine. I mean, I’ll admit I was kinda pissed for a minute there, but then I was just so- _relieved_. Just to know you were there again, that I hadn’t lost you.” His fingers tighten in Cas’s. “Felt like shit, losing you, I’ve gotta be honest. It fucked me up for a good while,” he says so earnestly, so easily, even when Castiel knows how much it’s costing him to be so open. “I guess, what I’m trying to get at; I don’t wanna do it again; not now, not ever if I can help it. Lost you once, barely handled it, and now I’m too old to do it all over again. So yeah, um. Don’t make me?” Dean’s smile is small, rueful, and Castiel can see the corner of his lips trembling.

There’s fear in Dean’s eyes, and hope, and Castiel feels the guilt of his past mistakes pile up on his chest all at once.  
It’s a fog that burns hot, prickles of pain on his face, the roof of his mouth, a white-hot, searing flash in his chest.

All he can think then, is that he _hurt_ Dean. He hurt him even as he did everything he could to keep him safe. If he didn’t know Castiel was alive he wouldn’t have to worry about him. He could just move on with his life, be happy. Right?

That’s what he told himself so long ago, watching Dean have dinner with his family, shivering in the cold and not letting himself want what he couldn’t have.

He let Dean go, he set him free, and it cost him everything he had. And it didn’t even work. He abandoned Dean, left him without even saying goodbye.  
He was selfish, stupid; he ruined everything, and he’s about to do it all over again.

The air is shrinking around him, laying on his skin sticky and heavy; sucking every breath from his lungs, until they’re shriveled, useless things.

Dean’s smile is slowly slipping away from his lips, the hope is dimming in his eyes.

And Castiel would let a whole galaxy burn just so that Dean Winchester could keep that look in his eyes a second longer. But he can’t.

Dean looks crumpled inside his lovely suit now, like he's suddenly two sizes too small for it. Castiel realises their kiss didn't taste like a final one because Dean didn't know it was.

Castiel owes it to him, to explain, to offer an apology, for however useless it might be. Dean deserves so much better than him, so much better than the dried up, pathetic, excuse of a man Castiel is. There are words in his head, so many of them, _too_ many. A swirling mess of pitiful apologies and useless explanations. He tries to pick one of them, to make it fall on his lips, so that he can start patching the chasm between him and Dean.

But he can’t. None of them feel right, none of them feel like enough. Because Dean grieved, and Dean was in pain, and it was all because of Castiel. And what is there to say to that? How can that be fixed with _words_?

So he swallows them all back down, all his words, all his apologies. Tiny pebbles that drop all the way down from his head to his stomach, landing there with a dull sound that echoes all the way through him.

They pile up, so many of them crowding in his chest, in his throat. Until his airways are too full to even squeeze a single breath in.  
Until he’s choking on them, and he should make himself talk, he should make himself breathe, but he just can’t.  
Tight lipped and starting to turn blue.

His heart takes notice and beats twice as fast, pumping adrenaline in his veins, begging him to open his mouth, let the air in. But his jaw is locked and now his chest hurts too and he can’t _think_.

He paws at his closing throat, and he’s distantly aware of Dean’s eyes shifting from sad to scared in the space of a blink.

His legs shake when he makes himself get up from the bench, the only thing he’s sure of is that he can’t let Dean see him like this.  
Can’t let Dean see just how broken he is, always has been.

Shame drops like a boulder on his shoulders, weighing on his every step.

He should have taken his pills, Evan was right, Castiel should never have thought he could be fine, make it on his own.

There are dark spots at the edge of his vision as he stumbles into a run, away from Dean, away from the concerned eyes of passersby.

He needs darkness, and silence. An animal instinct to just curl up somewhere safe, where nobody can see him wilt away. Where he can wait for the end on his own.  
Because that’s how it feels, like the end.

Someone collides with him, in his mad dash to safety. It’s a smack of a stranger’s shoulder against his, and the surprise is enough to cut through him and make him gasp. Air rushes in all at once and it burns.

He makes for stepping away, but the stranger doesn’t let him, a large hand wrapping around his bicep, steadying him.  
Castiel raises his gaze and it’s not a stranger, it’s Dean.

Dean, who’s looking straight at him, and now he’s steering Castiel away from the path, to the side, next to a big tree that’s just perfect for Castiel to slump against.

He closes his eyes because he can’t bear to watch the disgust and the frustration play on Dean’s face, the same way it does with Evan whenever Castiel has one of his episodes.

Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised when Dean doesn’t let him.

“Cas. Cas- Damn it. Look at me.” Dean’s voice is a sharp growl, as his hands curl over Castiel’s cheekbones, making a tunnel of sorts, so that when he does open his eyes, all he can see is Dean’s face.

“Good, Cas, that’s good. You’re good,” Dean whispers, and Castiel wants to scream, because he isn’t good, he’s about to pass out because he can’t breathe. Because he’s stupid enough that he can’t even make his own body obey him.

“Hey, hey. Come on, just- Fuck. Cas, look at me. What- what color are my eyes?” Dean asks, his face inching even closer, until Castiel forgets there’s even a world around them.

It’s such a stupid question too, because Castiel knows exactly what color Dean’s eyes are. He hasn’t forgotten it. They’re green, sometimes bright, like grassy fields, sometimes dark, like moss.  
They’re beautiful, always, and Castiel guesses if he has to go at least he can do it while looking at something so breathtaking.

So he makes himself open his eyes, look at what’s in front of him. And yeah, Dean’s eyes are green, like he remembered, but they’re also wide, with kindness and understanding and something so soft and vulnerable that Castiel doesn’t know what to do with it all.

“Green,” he chokes out.

“Yeah, that’s right. Just like that.” Dean nods and their faces are so close that Castiel can feel the heat of his breath right on his own face.

The feeling only increases when Dean steps even closer, his chest bumping into Castiel’s heaving one, until they’re flush together.

“Breathe with me, sweetheart,” Dean's voice is gentle in his ear, a hand cupped around the back of his head. Dean starts breathing loudly, in and out, his belly inflating and deflating with a rhythmic cadence that Castiel can’t help but follow, stuck together as they are.  
So he breathes with Dean, his own eyes now shut tight, his nose shoved in Dean’s collar, making himself smell the subtle scent of the cologne he wore tonight.

It’s hard to tell how much time passes, but eventually his heart seems to get the message that he isn’t, in fact, about to die. He’s alive, Dean smells like mint and pepper, his eyes are pine green tonight, and he’s holding Castiel so close he isn’t sure which heartbeat is his own anymore.

Exhausted, he slumps against Dean, lets himself soak all the warmth he’s radiating, forgets how he’s not supposed to.

Dean doesn’t protest, doesn’t say much at all. He just holds on, running a hand up and down Castiel’s spine, slow and soothing. And Castiel knows he should be stopping him, knows this is everything he was trying to avoid. But he’s tired, so tired he can’t even think of summoning enough strength to push Dean away, so he doesn’t.

Eventually, it’s Dean who breaks the silence, “Alright. We uh- Gotta get you home, Cas,” he murmurs, detaching just enough to look Castiel in the eye, leaving his hands on his hips.

Castiel nods.

The walk back to the car is slow and sluggish, Castiel’s brain is full of static, and he feels like he’s moving through water. Dean doesn’t seem to mind, holds him close to his side, walks with him to the Impala, doesn’t even let go of his hand while he drives. Castiel is almost grateful for his lack of speech, because then there’s no risk of him telling Dean how he doesn’t deserve his compassion.

By the time they reach Castiel’s hotel room, he’s almost feeling human again.

Dean sits him on the bed, helps him out of his shoes, and for some reason, the sight of him right there, crouching over Castiel’s feet, holding him so carefully, it’s almost enough to break him all over again.

“Dean- I’m- You don’t have to,” he manages, his voice strained and rough. Dean looks up from his spot on the floor, then keeps unlacing Castiel’s shoes. “Dean, I just- I’m sorry. You shouldn’t have had to see- see that.” He can’t look at Dean when he says it but he has to.

Dean sighs, then there’s the sound of the mattress dipping softly right next to him. “You don’t gotta apologize, Cas. I- uh- I get it. Things get too much sometimes.”

And Castiel seriously doubts Dean actually gets it. Put together, strong Dean, who knows how to function in the world. He appreciates the thought nonetheless.

“It’s- I’m fine. I’m good now. You helped and you didn’t have to. Just- thank you.”

“You don’t gotta thank me, Cas. What was I gonna do, leave you like that? What kinda asshole do you think I am?” _Evan would have. Evan has_. But Castiel can’t say that. “You scared me, man. I just- I want you to be okay, Cas.” Dean says, softer now, curling a tentative hand around Castiel’s thigh. He rubs slow circles into his skin, soothing, there.

“I’m okay.” he makes himself say, even though he still feels like Dean’s the only thing that’s holding him up. “I just. Should have taken the pills.” He adds, because that’s what he’s been thinking this whole time. The one thing he should have remembered and wasn't good enough to do. He can almost hear Evan’s voice in his head, whispering a scathing _I told you so_. Castiel never should have thought he was enough to make it on his own and this is his punishment.

He’s so taken by his train of thought that he doesn’t even notice Dean’s hand suddenly stilling on his leg.

“What pills?” Dean asks, and his voice takes on a dark quality that makes Castiel shiver, like when there’s a thunderstorm and you can feel the thunder in the air, the static filling your mouth, zinging through your skin as a warning.

“Cas. I’m serious. What pills?” and now Dean’s gaze is starting to pop with electricity too.

Had he been in a different state of mind, he would have lied. Would have crafted some well meaning, believable story, just enough to get Dean off his case. But Castiel’s tired, he’s got no defense left, so he caves.

He stands up on shaky legs and walks to the nightstand where his pills are. He doesn’t even have to motion Dean over because he’s right there, grabbing the plastic containers out of his fingers, making them rattle in their case.

He takes a second to read over the labels, “What the fuck is this Cas,” he growls, “I’ve never seen you take any of this. You’ve been living with me for days, and I _know_ you didn’t have them.”

And Castiel didn’t have them because he was _happy_ then, but it feels like that’d be too much of a pathetic thing to say, so he stays silent.

“This is heavy shit, Cas. You don’t mess with crap like this unless it’s the last resort.” He says, spinning Castiel around so he can look at him. “This one’s even dated four days ago. Says California on it. I know you never left here, so how did you even get it?” Dean’s voice is a growl now, and Castiel feels shame breaking through the exhaustion; Dean doesn’t deserve for this to be his problem too.

“I just- I need them, Dean. I mean, you saw it too tonight. I’m not- normal. Something’s wrong with me. I get like that sometimes, I can’t- I can’t control it, and you shouldn’t have had to deal with it and I’m sorry, but-” Dean looks like he wants to reply but Castiel can’t let him, “Evan, he- he brought them for me. Found a new doctor who would prescribe me what I need. And he was right, I didn’t take one tonight and look at what happened,” he reasons.

“The fuck- He- What do you mean he _found_ a doctor for you? What doctor, Cas? Did you even talk to them?” he pushes and Castiel wishes he would just stop, let him be.

“No, I- Evan told them about me. It’s fine. He knows how I get. I- I trust him.” He mumbles, and his eyes fall on the floor, because it’s too hard to look at Dean and the disappointment on his features.

“Cas, what the actual fuck are you even talking about?” Dean thunders, “that’s _illegal_. To prescribe you stuff without talking to you, especially crap like this!” He’s clutching the container so hard Castiel worries he’s going to break it. “And who the hell told you you weren’t normal? You had a panic attack, so what? That don’t mean shit.”

He doesn’t know how else to justify himself to Dean, so he doesn’t.  
“Give them back, please.” He asks, extending his hand, sure that Dean will just drop them off in his palm.

But Dean doesn’t. “No. No I’m not giving you this crap back. You weren’t even taking this last time I saw you!” Then he stills. “You weren’t, were you?” he whispers, and his eyes are scared.

“I- no. No, I haven’t been taking them.” _Not while I was with you_ he wants to say, but again, doesn’t.

“Now give them back, please.” He’s not even sure why he’s begging, it’s not like they matter to him, not more than Dean does. But Evan expects him to be taking them, and tonight proved he can’t function without them, and he doesn’t want to have to come up with more excuses to cover for Dean’s actions.

“You don’t _need_ them Cas. You- These are bad for you. Maybe yeah, they’re good for someone else. But not you. You just- you don’t need them. You gotta believe me.” And Dean’s eyes are shining with emotion now, and Castiel wishes he knew why Dean even cares so much about this.

No matter why, he can’t let him take them, can’t let Evan find out he’s not taking them. “Give them back,” is all he says, wishing his voice didn’t shake as much as it does.

“Cas, listen. You trust me, right?” Castiel nods, “Right, so. You have got to believe me. This stuff ain’t good for you. I can’t- damn it. I know it doesn’t make sense, but I’ve seen- I just know how this ends for you. And it ain’t good.” Dean says, and he’s right, because it truly doesn’t make any sense to Castiel.

Dean seems to take his silence for agreement, because he starts moving back, putting the pills in his pocket.  
It’s a split second decision; all Castiel knows is that that tiny orange container is the only thing that stands between him and the rest of his life unraveling.

“No, Dean. You can’t- If Evan finds out I’m not taking them he’ll-” He isn’t sure how to finish the sentence, because he isn’t sure of what Evan will do if he does find out, but he knows it won’t be good. And he’s so tired, he doesn’t have energy left to fight back against it all.

The mention of Evan’s name seems to break something in Dean’s resolution, because his earnest expression immediately morphs into a scowl. When Castiel meets his eyes again, there’s a flash of something in there that looks a lot like pain. “Fine. Have it your fucking way. What do I know about you anyway? Why listen to a dumb grunt, when your smart fiance knows better, right? Yeah, I wouldn't listen to myself either.” He laughs, bitterly, throwing the container on the bed.

And that manages to cut through the fog, and stab right into his chest. “Dean- Wait- I don’t-”

But it’s useless, Dean is already waving him off, stomping away with a barely contained fury that has Castiel recoil in fear.

He’s not even granted the grace of a last goodbye; Dean never turns back to look at him, just balls his jacket in his hands and storms out of the room. The door slams back with such force that the sound echoes in the hallway and through Castiel.

He stands there, alone with his sorrow and his little orange bottles, and he thinks that he did accomplish what he set out to do tonight.  
Dean’s gone, and he’s not coming back. It’s over, Castiel’s free.

This time, the realization doesn’t come as a surprise, he already knew freedom can feel like the loneliest place on earth; a barren, hollow ground, wind howling through his stray thoughts, nobody there to blame but himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly don't even know what to say? Other than to promise you guys once again that THINGS WILL BE FINE IN THE END. I wanna make that super extra clear; the happy ending is there, the boys just have some more to walk before they get there, that's all <3
> 
> I'm genuinely kinda scared to post this chapter; I did my best and I hope both their actions and thoughts were understandable, if hard to agree with. This is Cas's rock bottom, he's lost and doesn't think there's a way out, but I promise you (and him!) that it's there, and he'll get there in the end.
> 
> Dean's anger with the medication will be explained next chapter, but I'm sure most people will have guessed the endverse has a lot to do with it, and you're 100% right. ;)
> 
> And speaking of next chapter.. I decided to start posting every other week, at least for a couple chapters. I know it's annoying, but don't fear this is due to me losing interest in the story, it's actually the opposite, as I'm writing it every single day now. I just decided to change a bunch of things around and to explore their feelings more deeply, and that takes some extra time <3 I want this story to be the best it can be and I'm working for that!  
> So no new chapter next week, but the one after that you'll be getting another extra long one, so I hope it'll balance things out.
> 
> I really really hope you guys will still come along with me on this journey, I'm gonna be a needy author and beg for comments this time; this was nerve-wracking to write (and to post!) so if you've got something to say I'd LOVE to hear it and you'll make my day <3 <3 <3 And of course, THANK YOU to everyone who's come this far, it means everything to me!


	18. Shatter - Dean POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for posting day! This new posting schedule is very helpful to my writing, but also kinda strange, I miss posting every Friday!
> 
> You guys have already waited a long time for this so I don't wanna make you wait even longer. No specific warnings for this one, but it *is* very long (10k!) and pretty angsty, so be ready for a little emotional whiplash <3  
> So here we go; the endverse, a nap, and two more kids.
> 
> This chapter fought me A LOT, so huge thanks to my awesome betas [ tipofmemory ](https://tipofmemory.tumblr.com/) , [ huckleberrycas ](https://huckleberrycas.tumblr.com/), and extra thanks to [ wanderingcas ](https://wanderingcas.tumblr.com/) for giving their time and their advice!

The sound of Cas’s hotel door slamming echoes in Dean’s head over and over and over again. It’s there when he gets into the Impala, so loud it even covers the sound of her engine. It’s there when he drives, when he replays the evening in his head, frame by frame.  
It’s still there when he finally gets to the workshop, hands shaking and heart pounding.

Anger vibrates through his whole body, an earthquake that goes from the soles of his shoes right into his chest, his teeth.

The angrier he feels, the angrier he gets. He thought he was past this, this blind fury that just grips him, a searing hot clutch right at the base of his neck that seeps into him until all he sees is the red of the flames.

His jaw is clenched so tight he can almost hear the bones cracking.

There’s only one thing that matters, above everything else; getting to _break_ something. Release all that anger, that pain that’s piled up in his chest and scatter it all around, until it can’t hurt him any longer. Why let the humiliation, the helplessness, rot inside when he can just push it all out and pretend he’s not festering from within?

The workshop is dark and silent when he gets there, and he’s never been more grateful for the solace it provides.  
The smell of wood slams into him as soon as he steps inside, stronger than he usually notices it. It’s the cologne, he realizes; the fact that for the whole night he smelled nothing but his own expensive aftershave, the one he bought specifically for tonight’s dinner.

It strangles him, the shame he feels now, like all that hope that had been blooming inside him for the past few days has suddenly rot; its leaves wilting and turning poisonous.

He should have known better. He should have fuckin’ known better.  
He even kid himself, thought he was old enough, fuck, wise enough, to be able to read the situation.  
He thought he and Cas had something; something good, something worth fighting for.  
But again, he was wrong.

There’s a set of dressers he had started working on, laying innocently beside the big work table in the middle of the room. They’re a little lopsided and not quite finished; been resting there for a while, waiting for the client to actually make up their mind on the design.  
Fuck it, Dean decides, just another person who can’t just fucking _choose_.

He drops his jacket on the floor, rolls the sleeves of his shirt up and hauls the furniture into the middle of the room. Then it’s easy to grab the biggest hammer he owns, and just get to work.

Wood is resilient, stubborn, takes as many forms as it can before truly breaking down; it’s something Dean has always loved about it. Not now though. Now he wants to see it shatter in a million pieces, the louder the better. He swings and he hits, again and again. The cracking sounds of the wood breaking apart echo through the shop, almost loud enough to cover his own screams.

It doesn’t take long to tear the dressers down, not nearly long enough for all the rage to make it out of his body. So he grabs another piece, barely even registers what it’s supposed to be, and keeps going.

One hit for the shame he feels, for believing he could have something for himself; another for Cas, for his pills, for choosing somebody else over Dean, somebody who convinced him he’s sick.  
Another for not being good enough. Ever. Not good enough to make his marriage last, not good enough to keep Cas in his life, not good enough to make him stop destroying himself.

He doesn’t even have to look for new reasons, they just keep sprouting inside him, one right after the other; like the dam is broken and there’s no self esteem, no rationality to keep them at bay anymore.  
He lowered his defenses and all his demons are crawling out of the slimy dark places inside him. The ones he tries so hard not to think about, the ones he can never forget are there.

When his hands start bleeding, he welcomes it. Welcomes the stinging pain of a hundred little cuts and splinters, tries to pretend they hurt more than it does inside him.

The shop is half destroyed by time Dean finally runs out of energy. He looks at it, all the things he worked so hard for, built from scratch with his hands, with labor and care, now laying smattered all over the floor. Kinda like his life.  
He slumps on the floor then, crumpling under the weight of all of his failures, hides his face in his hands and grimaces when he feels the blood coating them.

Fuck.

He thought he was past this, he was _supposed_ to be past it by now, to know better.  
There’s heaps of breathing exercises and calming techniques he should know by memory. Things people smarter than him are able to do when they get angry. So they don’t go into a rampage and destroy everything on sight, scaring their wives, scarring their kids.

He’s talked about it to Lisa, to Sam, even to a damn therapist at one point. He humiliated himself in front of a stranger, talking about his daddy issues just so he could be right back here, a shaking mess of barely contained violence.  
He’s such a fucking idiot, he can’t even be angry right.

Eventually his back starts hurting and his legs go numb from sitting on the floor too long. The pain is still there, simmering in the background, and Dean forgot that breaking things never fixed anything.  
Old Dean would have kept going; would have stormed out of the workshop and into a bar, probably would have picked a fight with the biggest guy there, just to have an excuse to run his mouth and his fists.

But he’s not that Dean anymore; has promised himself over and over again that he’d be better, he’d _grow_. It doesn’t feel like he has accomplished that now, not in the slightest, but he guesses he can at least settle for making one less mistake tonight.

So he doesn’t go to a bar, instead he dusts himself off, finds an old first aid kit and removes all the splinters from his skin, and each one is a stinging reminder of just how stupid he’s been. He even cleans out the whole mess he made, spending hours just piling up all the broken pieces and thinking of all the time he’s gonna have to put in just to catch up.

By the time he’s done, he’s so tired he almost forgets to be in pain; he just shuffles back to the Impala and decides she’s gonna be his bed for the night, just like old times.

He dreams that night. Dreams of the Castiel he thought he had finally forgotten about. The one who felt so real and yet so impossible at the exact same time. The one whose smell Dean hasn’t been able to forget all these years; like herbs and mud and essential oils.  
The one with the messy hair and the sideways grin, the one with the sad, bottomless eyes.

That image, from so long ago, it overlaps with the present. Wraps around the Cas he knows, the one who sits straight and smiles shy, with his suits and the crinkles around his eyes and the way he covers Dean with his whole body when he’s inside him.  
Until Dean can’t distinguish one Cas from the other anymore, until he can’t remember they’re not the same person. Until they’re both lost, so far out of his reach he can’t ever hope to catch them, and it’s all Dean’s fault.

They taunt him; a united front in what had started like a memory and has turned into a nightmare. “I don’t need you,” says one Castiel, “You weren’t there, you let me fall,” accuses another, “It’s all your fault, can’t you see?” snickers a third one, and Dean wants to prove them all wrong, but deep down he knows that he can’t.

When he wakes up, it’s with the sound of Cas’s hollow laugh in his ears, the heavy cadence of his steps as he walks away.

He sits up, heart pounding, muscles aching; his body half torn between dream and reality. There’s a skinny grackle thumping on the hood of the car, its beady little eyes scrutinizing Dean as he blinks himself awake. Its feathers are a blueish black that makes him think of Cas for some reason. He rubs his eyes and the bird is gone. Dean can’t blame it, he wouldn’t want to watch this shit show either.

The sun isn’t even up yet, and there Dean Winchester sits, foolish asshole that he is; dreaming about a man he can’t have and shouldn’t want.  
The memory of him, silent for so long, is haunting now, and Dean wishes he could escape it but knows he can’t.

He stretches out on the seat as much as he can, and there isn’t a single muscle in his body that isn’t screaming in agony. How the fuck did he and Sam use to do this all the time?

A strange kind of restless energy thrums through him; he tries to grasp it, pry it apart and see what it’s made out of, but it’s like trying to hold onto a live wire. There’s sparks of anger, shame, nostalgia, and just below it all, a steady undercurrent of exhaustion.

Only one constant is there through it all; Cas.

Before he can talk himself out of it, he’s reaching for his phone.

_< CAS (SENT 06:47am)_  
_< Can we talk?_

And he doesn’t expect him to, it being so early, but Cas replies right away. Dean tries not to picture him laying alone in his huge bed, all rumpled and forlorn looking, thinking there’s something wrong with him, but he fails.

A warm pit opens right up in his chest, something alive and thrumming, that spins and turns and leaves him almost nauseous.

**> CAS (RECEIVED 06:48am)**  
**> Yes, I’d like that**  
**> Are you free now?**

Relief floods into him, cool and sweet.

_< CAS (SENT 06:50am)_  
_< Yeah now’s fine_  
_< Be there in a few_

The way his pits are smelling he’d better take a detour and catch a shower at Garth’s place, make himself at least halfway decent before meeting Cas.  
But if he drives out now he’ll be able to beat morning traffic; spare himself long minutes spent fretting in his car. Cas will just have to deal with seeing him look like shit, not like it matters anyway. Dean has to fight with this stupid instinct that wants him to only let Cas see him when he’s at his best, a parakeet puffing out his feathers, pretending to be a peacock. Fuckin’ foolish.

When Cas finally opens the door, he’s as rumpled as Dean was picturing him being, maybe even more so. There are deep shadows under his eyes and his hair is a complete mess, all smushed on one side and wild on the other, bird nest like. Dean wishes he didn’t want to run his fingers through it so bad.

“Hello, Dean,” Cas rasps.

“Hey Cas. Um- Cool if I come in?”

Cas just nods and shuffles backwards. Dean brushes against him a little as he walks in and the wave of tenderness he’s hit with nearly chokes him. It’s almost hard to believe, how angry he had gotten last night, makes shame rise fast inside him for a whole different reason.

He’s aware that he’s standing still, stuck between the door and the hallway, but he’s unable to move. He’s _so tired_ and Cas looks like he hasn’t slept either, and it’s getting harder and harder for Dean to find reasons to be upset.

“What?” Cas mutters, his eyes big and weary.

Dean doesn’t know what to answer, doesn’t know how to say that Cas is here, and he’s whole and Dean can still see him, touch him, _save_ him. He can still step forward, wrap his arms around Cas’s waist, let himself fold over the line of his torso, rest his head in the crook of Cas’s neck. He hasn’t lost him yet, and isn’t that all that matters?

So he doesn’t say anything at all; walks right into Cas’s space, past his surprised expression and right into his chest. When his arms wrap around Cas’s waist, Cas goes willingly. Dean collapses into him a little.

“I can’t lose you,” he hears himself whisper, and it’s strange because he doesn’t remember deciding to say so. Cas is so soft in his arms, smells a little like sweat and restless sleep and shit, Dean loves him so much he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to stop. “I can’t fuckin’ lose you, Cas, you got that?” he says, his lips moving right into the curve of Cas’s neck.

He’s so tense he can feel his own trembles echo through Cas’s body.

“I don’t want to lose you either,” Cas whispers, his voice all wobbly, like he’s close to tears. Dean shudders when Cas’s arms come to rest on his shoulders, a scarf of warmth, holding him even closer. Dean wants to disappear in him, be carried inside him always, until he can breathe for Cas when it gets hard.

They sway in place, ever so slowly; Cas leading them in a gentle, subtle rocking that has Dean melting in his arms. His cheek puddles on Cas’s shoulder and everything is silent in the near darkness of a morning that’s not quite there yet. And Dean is so tired and deep down he’s so scared and he can’t help but cling to this moment, breathe in it quiet and small and hope it never ends.

Dean isn’t sure how long they stay like that, but eventually Cas is slipping out of his embrace, and Dean wants nothing more than to tighten his arms around his waist and drag him back in, but he doesn’t.  
Cas doesn’t step far, just hooks his fingers around Dean’s and pulls gently. Dean doesn’t even have to think before he goes. He lets Cas lead them to the bed, his eyes never leaving Dean’s as he settles under the duvet.

“You look like you could use some rest,” is all that Cas says, and Dean can’t find it in himself to argue. Yeah, he could use some rest.  
He toes off his shoes and lays on his back, leaving space between their bodies, even though he doesn’t want to.

It’s Cas this time, who closes the distance; curls up like a question mark around Dean, sneaking a hand down to cup the pudge of his belly.

“Sleep, Dean.” He murmurs in his ear, so Dean does.

Dean has got no clue how long they lay there, but by the time he opens his eyes again, the sun is high in the sky and he can hear the city fully awake below them.

They must have moved around in their sleep, because Dean’s now laying on his side, Cas’s body a blanket of warmth plastered to his back, breathing steady and deep.  
It’s such a small thing, the puffing of Cas’s rhythmic breaths against his neck, and yet, in that moment, it has a magnitude Dean’s unable to understand. It makes his eyes prickle and his heart stutter; a boundless, overwhelming melancholy that burns in his throat with every breath he takes. The startling realization that this moment is slipping from his fingers with every passing second, that Dean would do anything to make time stretch and settle right here, right now, warm and safe, forever.

“Can’t lose you,” he hears himself repeat in a whisper, like that’s his new mantra. Like saying it enough times will be enough to make Cas just _stay_.

And Cas must have been awake already, because he tightens his arms around Dean, noses the short hair at the nape of his neck. It tickles a little and Dean shudders.

“I don’t know where we go from here,” Cas whispers eventually, voice like sandpaper, “I wish I- wish we could just stay here.”

“Fuck, Cas. Me too.” He says it to the wall, because it still doesn’t feel like he can say it looking at Cas. Not after last night. The mere thought boils painfully in his stomach, bruise heavy on his chest.  
“I’m- I- damn. I’m sorry about last night.” he manages in the end.

“It’s okay,” Cas’s reply is mumbled right into the back of his neck, “I know it’s hard to handle me when I’m in that state.”

“No, Cas, that’s not-” he huffs, trying to spin around to face Cas, but Cas tightens his arms around him, keeps him where he is. Talking without looking it is then.  
“It ain't about handling shit, alright? You did nothing wrong. I shouldn’t have gotten angry like that, that’s on _me_ , you got that?”

Cas doesn’t reply, doesn’t really acknowledge Dean’s words in any way, just keeps on breathing, doesn’t get up to leave. Dean’s apparently at the stage of desperation where that’s enough.

“Why _did_ you get angry like that then?” Cas’s voice goes thin at the end and Dean hates it.

Hates it enough that it makes his skin itch in self-disgust. He slips out of Cas’s tight embrace, sitting up against the headboard and looking down at the mess of Cas’s black hair on the pristine pillow.

“Cause I’ve seen this before, and seeing you with those pills, it just- it scared the crap outta me.”

“I don’t think I understand,” Cas looks at him with a little head tilt thing that reminds Dean of his long lost angelic days. And yeah, Dean owes him an explanation or two.

So he starts from the beginning, talks about Zachariah and his tricks, about the worst of them; a world collapsing and taking them all down too. It’s strange, to recall it all like the memory of something that actually happened. Logically, he knows it didn’t, knows those people were nothing but puppets, figments of some dickhead angel’s imagination.

“I still think about them sometimes, that Dean and Castiel,” he confesses, even knowing how stupid it is. But they _felt_ so real, the pain in their eyes born out of genuine struggle, and the rage Dean saw in himself, he still feels that sometimes, rearing its head and screaming to be let out.

It isn’t easy to tell Cas about his alternate self; or maybe it’s just hard for Dean to think of Cas that way. It makes his skin crawl and his throat constrict, to describe the hopelessness, the hollow stare, like he had seen it all and had decided there was no meaning to be found.

“You won’t remember this, but I came back, and you were waiting for me on the side of some road, and I knew it then, I knew I couldn’t lose you. I asked you not to change and you laughed.”

“I do remember,” Cas says it so softly he barely catches it, “I believe that was the first time I missed you, I just didn’t know what it was yet.”

And fuck if that doesn’t make Dean’s heart swell to the walls of his chest.

“I did change though. I’m not- I’m not the person you knew, Dean.”

“That’s right, you’re not, you’re better. You almost get my references now,” he grins, hoping to draw a chuckle out of Cas, dispel some of this tense energy that feels like it’s gonna swallow them both. It doesn’t work, Cas’s gaze dropping down somewhere in the blankets.

“Look, Cas, I couldn’t do anything for him, that Castiel. You- he was too far gone.” He mutters, “But I’m not gonna let it happen again, not to you.”

Cas frowns, sitting up to face him. “Dean, that’s not- That man, the _version_ of me you saw there, that’s not who I am, it’s something Zachariah created to manipulate you. It doesn’t have anything to do with reality, with me.”

Dean raises his hands, placatingly. “I know that, I do. But- Look, I can’t take my chances, Cas, not with this. I failed you enough already.” And that’s hard to say, but maybe it’s because it’s true.

“But you didn’t.” And that’s complete bullishit and they both know that. He feels like a fraud, shame weighing his eyes down. “No, Dean, look at me. You didn’t fail me. All the choices I made, I made them on my own, they’re not on you, in this universe or any other.” Cas says it with emotion, like he believes it, eyes wide and boring into Dean’s.

Dean scoffs, clears his throat to talk past the rock lodged in there. “I shoulda been there when you came back, Cas. Shoulda found you. What kind of hunter is unable to find the man he- his friend? Had I tried enough, been less stupid, less selfish, maybe things’d be different now.”

Cas bristles visibly at that, his eyes clouding with irritation. “Different how? You may not think much of what I made out of myself without you, Dean, but I'm proud of the life I have. It has cost me _everything_ to get here, and I’m not going to let you judge me for it.”

“Hey, no, come on now, that’s not what I was saying. I’m- Cas, I’m proud of you, alright. Hell, you accomplished more than I could ever hope for myself. It’s just- I mean, I’m just worried about you, that’s all. I wanna get it right this time.”

That doesn’t seem to mollify Cas much; his nostrils flare and his back goes even straighter. “There isn’t anything to _get right_. I am not a child, Dean, despite what everyone else seems to think. I don’t need you to make decisions for me.”

The discussion is spiralling out of control so fast Dean’s getting whiplash; this is what he gets for trying to use his words. “Wait, no. That’s not what I was trying-”

But Cas is on a roll now, “What is it then? My meds? Because Dean, I assure you, I need those. Evan says-”

And maybe that’s where Dean goes wrong. Because he hears that name again, and suddenly he can feel blood boiling in his veins. “Yeah, good, this Evan guy, I really wanna hear what he’s got to do with you suddenly getting all - doped up.”

Cas is angry now, it rattles in his frame, shakes the shape of his words. “I am not getting _doped up_ , Dean, I am getting help. Which I need. You may think you know me better than anyone else, but it’s not like that, not anymore.” His eyes widen a little as he says it, like he knows exactly how it sounds and how badly it’s gonna hurt.

Dean pushes through the burning heat clawing at his chest.

“It ain’t a pissing contest of who knows you better, alright? But even a dumb asshole like me knows you shouldn’t take this crap just cause your- boyfriend says so. I don’t know why you’ve got it in your head that this is the solution. But, Cas, whatever the problem, this ain’t the answer, not for you. You’ve gotta trust me.”

“A doctor prescribed those, Evan-”

“Yeah, without even talking to you! You’ve gotta realize that’s wrong. Come on Cas, you’re _smarter_ than this.”

And he must have said something very wrong, because Cas goes rigid all of a sudden, stands there looking back at him with such an unnatural stillness that Dean shivers.

“You know, Evan said the exact same thing to me. Guess I’m just disappointing you both.”

Dean wants to shoot himself in the head. This is why he doesn’t talk, he always ends up making it worse. “Come on, Cas, I’m not tryna fight with you, I just wanna help.”

“You want to help, right. Because I’m wrong, Evan’s wrong, the doctor’s wrong, but _you_ are right, _you_ know better?”  
Cas is challenging him now, eyebrows raised high on his forehead, like he’s daring Dean to prove him wrong.

There’s a tickling pressure at the back of Dean’s brain telling him to cool it already, before he loses all control of where this talk is going. He doesn’t listen to it.  
“Honestly? On this? Yeah, I do.”

Cas scoffs, his whole body suddenly thrumming with anger. “And for what Dean? A dream you had ten years ago where I was a junkie? _That’s_ your reasoning?” Cas’s voice is getting lower, the rumble of a brewing storm.

“It wasn’t just a dream and you know that-”

“Still, are you really going to argue that it stacks up against eight years of being by my side, day in and day out? Because Evan was there, not you. I was living out of a shelter and working part time at a gas station when I met him, Dean. I had nothing, I _was_ nothing. Had he not helped me I would still be nothing-”

And Dean can’t even begin to unravel all of that, not while guilt burns acid in his chest. “Cas, that’s not-”

“No, shut up!” Cas says suddenly, eyes wild as he gets off the bed and starts pacing. “I’m sick and tired of everyone around me thinking they know better than I do. You think you know me, Dean? Think you know Evan? Cause you’re talking about someone who paid for my education, who let me live in his apartment, who found the investors for my company. Someone who has given _everything_ for me, even when I was nothing but a nuisance. I have no reason not to trust him; if he says I need the drugs then I believe him, I _have_ to believe him. I have to do whatever it takes to make it up to him.”

“Make up for what?” Dean asks stupidly, the scathing look he receives from Cas turns his insides to ice. That can’t be. “You mean- Did he?”

Cas nods, eyes on the floor. “He knows about us. My phone had a tracker in it, I figure he knew it for a while.”

“Fuck, Cas, I’m sorry, I-”

“It doesn’t matter now. I should not- I should have been more prudent. But I’m handling it, gonna do what needs to be done. This is not your problem, Dean.”

Dean’s chest is doing a strange thing, like it’s shrinking and leaving him with no space to take a breath. “What do you mean, _what needs to be done_?”

Cas laughs so mirthlessly Dean can almost see the darkness in him, “I don’t think you understand, Dean. I _owe_ him. I owe him my life. He sent me here to get my head right and plan a wedding, and look where I ended up. He was trying to solve a problem, and instead I created a new one, the least I can do now is trust him.” He’s facing Dean now, morning light haloed around his body, almost as if Dean’s hallucinating him. “You can’t just- barge into my life after a decade and act like you’ve got all the answers. This is not a guns blazing kind of deal, Dean. You think you’re so much better than Evan but you’re the same. Everything’s fine until I- I disobey, do something you disagree with, and that’s it, you explode, you walk away. How am I supposed to make my own choices, move forward, if everybody I trust keeps forcing me to go along with _their_ choices?”

Cas pauses for a second, hands splayed wide, looking at Dean intently, like he’s waiting for an answer. And Dean’s got shit-all to give him.

“You, Evan, God; you’re all the same. All you want to do is have me play as your little obedient soldier, follow your every order, never get out of line, never do anything stupid, just keep my head down and listen to you, because _you know better_. Can’t be an angel right, can’t be human right; can’t have panic attacks, can’t take meds either. There are- so many _rules_ to follow, to keep you all happy. And I can’t! I can’t fucking do it! Why can’t this- why can’t _I_ just be enough, for once?” The way he says it, voice broken in the middle, the loud cracking of the soaked wood of a ship, splintering away under the waves.

Dean’s never felt so small in his life, shame coats him head to toe, a heavy blanket of lead that crushes him. He pushes through it somehow, “Cas, you _are_ enough, you’ve always- fuck- you’ve always been enough.”

Cas is silent, a mute wall of shaking sorrow, like all the fight has been drained out of him, nothing there to replace it. He sits heavily at the edge of the bed, head bowed low, his back to him; Dean wonders if he’s crying.

“I should have never come here,” he whispers in the end, regret dripping clear from his words, weighing his voice down; Dean’s chest grows cold all of a sudden. It feels as if his heart stops beating for a moment, then beats three times as fast to make up for it. Somehow, it hurts. And he knows, he _knows_ , that Cas is upset and scared and Dean should let it go, shouldn’t spur him on.

But he still can’t help it, not when Cas’s words sit like a boulder on his chest.  
“You regret it, then?” he asks and he can’t bring himself to even look at Cas, ever the coward. So he sits there, hunched over, looking at the strands of the woven carpet on the floor, waiting for Cas to confirm what he already knows.

But Cas stays silent, his head in his hands, pulling at his hair so tightly it has to hurt.  
When Dean finally looks at him he can see his mouth open, gaping around words he can’t bring himself to say.

“Fuck, Cas, seriously?” he barks, heart hammering right in his throat, his vision clouding red. He can’t sit still anymore, or maybe he just can’t sit next to Cas, can’t bring himself to soak in all the despair he’s radiating.

He paces in front of the bed and Cas looks at him, eyes dark, brimming with tears. Dean’s heart  
breaks for him all over again.

“Dean, I- Can’t you see? Everything would have been fine had I not come here, everything would be the same. I’d have the company and you would still be married, still have a family-”

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare talk about shit you don’t know, Cas. My marriage, hell, my _family_ , is my business. And I still have one-”

“You’re getting _divorced_. Can you tell me that would have happened had we not- found each other?” And no, Dean can’t tell him that, of course he can’t. Because he had been stuck in a rut, unable to move on, unable to fix it, and Cas was the one to drag him out of it. If anything, Dean’s grateful.  
And he should have been faster to answer because all it takes is a second of suspended silence, before Cas is nodding, like he knew it all along. “Can’t you see? I _took_ them from you. We should both be regretting the very day you walked into that bar.”

His voice doesn’t even waiver as he says it, and out of all the things Dean wanted for Cas, regret is the only one he managed to give him.

“You had everything you wanted, Dean, everything you worked for. And then I saw you and we talked, and I had missed you _so much_ and for _so long_ , and suddenly you were right there and I- I couldn’t control myself. I ruined everything, and for what? None of what I gave you can be worth a family. I’m not- some things just aren’t worth the price you’d have to pay to keep them.”

_This is_ , Dean wants to tell him, _you are_. But he can’t stop thinking how Cas regrets everything they’ve done. All those memories they made together, the ones that Dean cradles to his chest so dearly, Cas wishes he could forget. How he wishes he had never met Dean again. And who’s he to prove him wrong? Who’s Dean to take his picture perfect life away from him, when he knows he’s got fuck-all to offer.

“I don’t regret it,” he manages in the end, and they both pretend that his voice didn’t just crack. “Whatever happens, I need you to know I- I’d do it all over again. I’ll never- Cas, I-”

“I think you should go,” Cas interrupts him suddenly. He blurts it out like it’s making him sick, his whole body tense, hands fisted on the fabric of his sweatpants.  
He doesn’t look back at Dean, no matter how long Dean stares.

“That’s it, really? You’re done?” he has to ask, has to hear it from Cas’s mouth, so he won’t be able to fool himself with false hope late at night, when he’s alone and his bed’s cold.

“What else is there to do, Dean?” And there’s a stupid little part of Dean that wants to believe Cas is actually asking. But Cas doesn’t wait for an answer. “Nothing good can come from this, and you know that too. Don’t make this harder than it already is. Please.” It’s the way Cas says _please_ , the half whisper of a broken voice that reeks of desperation, that’s what puts a seal on all of Dean’s good intentions.

Because what are those worth if Cas doesn’t want any of it? If he has decided, has given up already.

Dean’s throat burns with all the words he wants to say, it physically hurts to push them back, swallow all his promises and his pleads down. And that’s where they should stay, hidden and secret, forgotten. And yet he can’t help himself.  
“Just promise me one thing, alright. If _anything_ happens, if you need someone, you call me first, whatever it is. I’ll be there.” He says, trying not to feel like the pathetic fuck he is, telling himself Cas’s safety is worth more than his dignity.

Cas nods, his messy hair flopping on his forehead. And Dean wants nothing more than to push it back, kiss the crown of his head and cradle him in his arms until everything is okay again.

_Cas doesn’t want that, he doesn’t want you_ , he reminds himself, even though it’s hard to believe it, in the haze of Cas’s scent, with the warmth of his bed still on his skin.

The walk to the door seems shorter than ever before, and Dean has to wonder if that’s the last time he has to walk out on Cas. He has to fight with every single instinct that tells him to turn back and stare Cas down until he relents, until his walls collapse.

_I’ll see you soon_ , he thinks, but he doesn’t say it.

\----

That’s the last time he sees Cas for a week. One stupidly long and lonely week wasted picturing Cas and all the ways their discussion could have been different; curling on the rickety bed in Garth’s cabin and feeling like there’s too much space left at the end of the night. He starts sleeping on the spare couch just so he won’t have the room to roll around and try to find Cas’s body next to him.

He takes out his phone a million times, types a thousand different texts and deletes them all. It’s a slow, maddening, disappointing game, where he’s always the loser.

Life starts catching up to him, all those menial things that slipped away quietly while he was trapped in the haze of Cas. There are orders to be finished and clients to deal with, and a divorce lawyer to hire.

He starts calling Lisa every night again. They facetime and the kids say hi, and one night they demand he has dinner with them; he spends the whole meal picking at his sandwich one handed, staring at the lopsided view of May and Jack making a mess of their mac and cheese, and it’s good. It’s almost enough to make that constant ache inside him stop burning.

They talk about the divorce, and it’s a lot easier than Dean had ever pictured. There’s no yelling and only a little crying. Even then, it’s the nostalgic kind, and Dean figures that’s fine.

“I think I wanna move back to Indiana,” Lisa drops the bomb one night as they’re going over the divorce papers. “My mom’s there and she can help, and Ben’s going to university soon, and I don’t know... Feels like it’d be a good fresh start for everyone.” And fuck, Dean’s got no arguments against that, not when they moved to Lawrence for him in the first place.

So he fights against the instinct to disagree, says it’s fine, it makes sense. Just like that, he’s looking at affordable two bedroom apartments, picturing what the hell he’s gonna do with all the space when the kids aren’t visiting.  
He wonders if magnolias bloom in Indiana but stops himself from actually checking, it’s not like it really matters.

Garth catches him house hunting one night and asks him if it means he’s leaving soon. For the first time in months, Dean has to say yes. “Not just yet, though,” he adds. He doesn’t tell Garth he can’t bring himself to leave while Cas is still in town, but maybe it’s not necessary.

“Happy for you, buddy, looks like things are finally settling down,” Garth toasts to him later that night, and Dean hides his grimace with a sip of beer; he wishes he was able to pretend better.

\---

He’s staring at the wall, trying to talk himself out of driving to Cas’s hotel, when the phone rings, jolting him out of his stupor. Cas’s name is flashing on the screen, the picture he took of him just weeks before, sun haloing his hair, spiking in all directions, mussed up by Dean’s own fingers.  
It seems like a lifetime and a half ago.

The phone keeps ringing, his heart starts speeding up, fear or desire, or maybe both, and before he fully knows it, his fingers are swiping up and answering the call.

There’s a grateful sigh at the other end of the line.  
“Dean, I almost thought you weren’t going to answer.”

“I almost didn’t,” he replies, even though it isn’t true. That earns him a couple seconds of tense silence that he can’t really deal with.  
“What’s up, Cas?” he asks, softer now.

“I need your help, I don’t know who else to call,” Cas says and there’s a slightly unsettling edge of panic in his voice.

A thousand scenarios burst into Dean’s head; “What happened?” he asks, getting up from the couch and locating the nearest pair of jeans already.

“I’m babysitting Erin’s kids.”

Dean stops in his tracks, a leg already fitted through the jeans, the other still dangling on the side awkwardly.

“Dean. They’re just- I don’t know what to do. You’re the only person I know who could help.”

Cas sounds genuinely upset and now that he’s paying attention, Dean can hear the shrieks he has learned to associate with an angry toddler.

The jeans slide smoothly over his hips as he adjusts himself one handed, chest a little tight, torn between exasperation and hilarity.  
It’s far too easy to picture Cas, hair messy from running his fingers through it in stress, frown pulling at the corners of his face, attempting to rationally reason with a screaming child. The image is like a flutter in his chest, a slight rumble in his throat, like a purr, and he’s stepping out of the cabin before he can look at it all too close.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming. Text me the address.” Fuckin’ whipped.

The drive is short and soon he’s pulling into the spacious driveway of a ridiculously huge house.  
Before he can elaborate on it too much, the front door opens to a Castiel who is as disheveled and stressed out as Dean was picturing.

“Dean. Thank God you’re here.” Cas says, hand curling on his bicep.  
He should pull away from the touch but he leans in just a little instead.

“She’s been screaming for over twenty minutes now, I don’t know what to do.”  
Cas’s eyes are wide as he rambles, dragging him through the house.

“Hey, hey, slow down. What happened?”

“The receipt, Dean! I took them to Sonic for milkshakes, gave her the receipt to hold, then I threw it away when we got back. She wants the receipt again. I said no, because the podcast I listened to said to be firm with young children and I had already thrown it away. She started crying and screaming, she wouldn’t breathe. I tried everything, Dean, everything. I offered her toys, iPad, TV. I even fished the receipt out of the trash and gave it to her. But apparently it’s too wet and gross and she doesn’t want it now, and I don’t know what to do. What do I do?” he asks, genuine panic flashing in his eyes, and they’re still so blue. Dean wants to slap him, laugh at him, and kiss him a little, at the same time.

They’re in the living room now, where the small child is screeching like a banshee, and it actually hurts his ears. Her face is red and blotchy and she’s throwing pillows around and slamming her tiny fists on the ground.

Cas gestures at the mess, concern and disbelief written all over his frowning face.  
“This can’t be normal, can it? Do you think she’s sick?”

Dean understands, he does. Dealing with kids with no experience can be terrifying, and Cas looks like he’s about to have a meltdown of his own.

So it doesn’t matter that all Dean wants to do is drag him out of this stupid house, sit him in his car and drive for as long as it takes for Cas to get his shit together.  
It doesn’t matter what he wants, because he told Cas he’d be there, whatever he needed, and he’s not about to go back on his word.

“Where’s the other kid. You said there’s two?” he asks, and Cas already looks more relaxed as he points to the other side of the room.

There the kid is, headphones perched on his head, calmly ignoring his sister’s meltdown and playing something on his iPad. He looks to be about five and Dean knows he’s in safe territory.  
He spots a scuffed up guitar laying in a corner and suddenly knows what to do.  
“Watch this,” he says to Cas’s curious expression.

“Okay! Who’s up for singing some songs?” he asks.

The older kid immediately perks up, sliding the headphones from his head, “what songs?” he asks, iPad fast forgotten on the ground.

The shrieks go up in volume, his sister getting even angrier as she’s being ignored for the time being.

“You know the Peanut Butter song?” Dean asks him, and starts strumming on the guitar before he gets a reply. Soon the kid has joined him on the floor, legs crossed and lungs filled as he belts out any song that Dean can think of.

It only takes two songs before his sister is climbing down the couch, bare feet padding on the carpet as she joins their little music circle, smiling in delight and loudly asking for the upteenth rendition of _Itsy Bitsy Spider._

The whole thing doesn’t even take five minutes and Dean is pretty damn proud of his toddler managing skills. Someone could say he preens a little under Cas’s impressed stare, but they would be wrong.

“Toddlers are the ultimate FOMO machines, Cas,” he tells him later, as they’re shuffling both kids toward the bathroom to give them baths before putting them to bed. “If they think there’s something cool going on, they need to be part of it. Just make something else seem fun enough, and bam, they’re over whatever meltdown they were having,” he tells him, and maybe he winks when Cas’s jaw goes a little slack in surprise.  
It’s easy like that, to forget everything else, to pretend there’s nothing lurking behind their smiles.

After his little musical performance both kids are hanging by his every word, and even with the sugary milkshakes Cas had naively fed them, it’s easy enough to coax them into the large bathtub.

There’s bubbles and barbies being chucked into the soapy water, and laughter and a couple more songs. Cas is awkward and too serious with the kids, and they eat it up, much to Cas’s dismay. Dean has to take pity on the guy and lead by example until Cas finally relaxes and starts having fun too. The whole thing feels domestic in such an effortless way that it would be so easy to believe it’s real.

Cas’s white shirt gets soaked when he gets into a splashing battle with the kids, and loses miserably.  
Dean can see his skin through the wet clothes, can hear the warmth of his laugh when the kids do something funny. He wants him so bad he forgets the words to _Twinkle Twinkle Little Star._  
It’s like his ribcage has shrunk two sizes and suddenly his lungs are in his throat and his heart drops somewhere around his stomach. It’s hard to breathe and it’s harder to stop himself from wanting.

The kids demand tickles and a goodnight song as they’re being put to bed. By the time they’re both asleep in their beds, Cas is looking as rumpled and warm as Dean feels and they both slump against the wall in front of the bedroom.

“It’s only eight pm,” Cas says, sounding somehow surprised by that notion. “It’s only eight pm and I’m exhausted,” his head thumping a little on the wall, his neck a long tanned column, all tendons and sharp collarbones.

Dean swallows but his mouth is dry. It’s impossible now, to pretend everything’s fine, when it’s just the two of them and the silence of an empty house.

“We left the bathtub, gotta drain it,” he rasps out, innocent fuzzy warmth draining from his chest to be replaced with a sweltering heat that pulses and sizzles deep in his gut.

He hurries back into the bathroom without looking back, busies himself with gathering the toys they’ve strewn everywhere, telling himself the ache he feels inside is just him missing his own kids, nothing less, nothing more.

The tub stopper is stuck and he has to push both arms into the water to free it. Once he does he gets back up and realizes Cas has entered the room without him noticing.  
Cas’s eyes snap back to his face so fast, like he was checking him out and doesn’t want to get caught.  
It’s so unfair and impossible to ignore, and _who the fuck gave him the right?_

When Dean turns to face Cas he sees him slumped against the bathroom counter, hip cocked to the side, hands resting easy on the marble.  
His shirt is still soaked, still clinging to his skin, and Dean can see the pink shadow of a nipple under the fabric. Cas is doing absolutely nothing to hide it and it infuriates him. He has no right, no right to reject him and then parade himself around like this, like Dean won’t react, like Dean won’t want him.

His hands close into fists as he turns around again to stare at the water draining from the tub. There’s heat on his back where Cas’s eyes are observing him, watching his every action, like he’s a caged animal about to lash out.  
It makes him even angrier.

“You’re really good with kids,” Cas says finally, voice soft and echoing a little in the big bathroom.

It does nothing to quench Dean’s turmoil. The raspy gravel of Cas’s voice only serves as fuel for the embers burning in his gut.  
He can feel his body reacting to him, to his mere presence, blood pumping faster, breaths coming shorter, and the bathroom is still steamy and it’s so hard to think right now.

“Nah, I’m barely passable with other people’s kids. It ain’t that hard once you figure out what they like,” he grunts, turning to face Cas again, because not seeing him is doing him no favors anyway. Or maybe because he looks glorious in his wet, clinging clothes and damp hair, and Dean doesn’t want to miss a second of the sight, even if it doesn’t belong to him.  
“Doesn’t change the fact that I’m a shitty father to my own,” he adds, a bitter whisper, words slipping out before he can stop himself. They’ve been stewing in his brain for the better part of the evening, for every laugh he got out of these kids, he was reminded of every laugh he was missing from his own.

“That’s not true,” Cas says, so soft and so tender it slices right through him. He’s closer now, reaching out to where Dean is sitting on the blunt edge of the stupidly massive bathtub. And Dean knows he means well, but he doesn’t have the right to talk about shit he knows nothing about. There’s something wrong about Cas talking about his “other” life, his real life, the one where he doesn’t belong, will never belong, even said so himself.  
And Dean can picture him there all he wants, can spend countless hours fitting Cas’s shadow into a million and one family pictures, but it doesn’t change the fact that he won’t be there.

“With all due respect, Cas,” he breathes, jaw tight, hands clutching the marble so hard he can almost feel it crack. “You don’t get to say that,” he snaps, and doesn’t let his eyes drop down when Cas’s go all droopy and sad. “Not anymore.”

Cas’s eyes are wide and blue and liquid when they find his again and Dean wants to drown. Castiel reaches a hand to grab at Dean’s shoulder, long fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, pushing him away, dragging him closer, neither of them really knows.

“Dean-” he says, breathy and trembling and Dean feels the words hot right against his own skin and fuck if it isn’t too much to resist.

“Shut the fuck up,” he grunts and his whole body is surging against Castiel’s, crashing into his rumpled form chest first. Cas is firm against him, a sure wall of lean muscle and damp skin.

Dean crowds him against the counter, pushing and pushing, until Cas’s back collides with the sink. Tension thrums in the air, and Cas does look good like that, breathing heavily, bracketed by Dean’s arms. His gaze is steady, firm, like he’s ready to take whatever Dean decides to give.  
The pink of Cas’s lips looks even more enticing under the soft light, and Dean wants to lick every moan right off them.

It’s so easy to picture, the way it’d go. He’d rut his cock against Cas’s, drag their hips together until they were both hard and aching, until Cas was panting and sweaty. He would kiss him then, so hard he wouldn’t even be able to rush a single breath in. The way Cas’s eyes are blown right now, Dean knows he’d let him do it. Knows he’d let him fist a hand in his hair and rip his shirt open, drag his nails though his chest until Cas wailed in need.

And by God, does Dean want to.

Desire sizzles in him, anger ailing its embers, until it melts flames all over Dean’s skin. He catches his own stare in the mirror over Cas’s shoulder and he looks like a crazed man.  
He feels like one too. He looks at the reflection of Cas’s back in the glass, and it’s so, so easy to picture flipping him over, Cas letting him bend him over the sink.

He’d drop his pants down just enough to get access, open him up fast and then slide into him, hard and hot. He’d fit his hands in the sharp grooves of Cas’s hipbones and then just rut inside him until they both were spent. He wonders what Cas’s moans would sound like in this big bathroom that doesn’t belong to either of them.  
And it’s dangerous to think like this, when Cas is still so close, when it’s impossible for Dean to pretend he doesn’t remember the exact taste of his skin.

Suddenly there’s a hand low on his belly, splayed wide and warm, fingers reaching up to his stomach. Dean wishes they could sink inside, reach into the cold mess of his guts and rip this desire clean out of him.  
But Cas doesn’t move, his hand stays where it is, rising and falling with every stuttering breath Dean manages to suck in.

“You’re angry,” Cas says, a matter of fact statement that’s a bucket of ice on Dean’s fire, it sizzles and pops and eventually, it goes out.  
“I’m sorry I called you tonight,” and he tries to catch Dean’s gaze. It’s hard, they’re so close, close enough that they could just shut their eyes and let their mouths fall into a kiss.

“‘S fine,” he manages, and he wonders if Cas can feel his heart beating frantically through his belly.

Cas smiles a little smile that’s all sadness and regret, “I missed you, and you said to call you for anything and-”

“I’m glad you did,” he pushes back a little and somehow his arms have made it from the counter to Cas’s waist. And it was so much easier to deal with the burning desire, and pictures of slick bodies and hard pleasure; because this tender thing that melts into Dean’s bones now, it feels impossible and inevitable; it swallows him and he sinks.

“I miss you too,” he allows himself because he does, with every breath he takes, he misses Cas. Misses the shadows of him, the way the light paints his skin, the way he tilts his head into the sun and smiles to the sky. Misses the little things more than the big ones, the feeling of their palms together, the weight of his head on his shoulder as he cooks breakfast, the deep rasp of his voice on a whispered _Good morning_ from across the pillow.

He closes his eyes then, because they suddenly feel heavy with tears. In the darkness he feels Cas’s forehead make contact with his own, their noses bumping together, and it’s not a kiss but in some ways it’s better.

Dean wishes there were words for everything he’s feeling but he doesn’t think he’s smart enough to even understand half of it anyway.

Cas’s palm is still warm on his belly and Dean breathes against it, in and out, again and again, fooling himself into thinking it’s enough.

At some point, Cas’s phone rings.

“It’s Erin, she’s coming back,” he tells him, taking his hand and his warmth back, like Dean doesn’t need it.

“I should go,” he makes himself say, because he’s in a stranger’s house, with a man who doesn’t love him back, and he’s spent the last hour torn between wanting to fuck the anger out of him and cry on his shoulder.

“Dean, I-” Cas starts, but Dean’s already stepping away. And he can’t tell him that he can’t stop, that it’s easier to just keep moving, pretend he’s walking towards something and not away from it.

“It’s fine, Cas. It’s better this way, I should go,” and he can’t make himself look at the desperate expression on Cas’s face, the way all his features drop down. If he did he might fool himself into thinking it means something.

Cas doesn’t walk him to the door, and Dean figures it’s better that way. A quiet exit through the stage door, when the audience is distracted by better and brighter things on the stage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go, another one down. I know this is sad, I know it was frustrating to read at points, but again I promise you it's all going to be okay in the end! I hope you guys could see the growth happening here, even through the pain; they're trying to make things right, they don't know exactly how yet but they WILL get there. <3
> 
> With this chapter this story passes the 100k mark and I honestly can barely believe it? I've never written anything this long or complex before and I really feel like I couldn't have done it without everybody's support. I keep saying it, but it's true, you guys mean a lot to me and getting to read your feedback on this has become the highlight of my week <3
> 
> Still gonna keep posting every other week for a while longer, but I hope the longer chapters are making up for the longer wait. I promise I'm using all the extra time to make this story the best it can be!
> 
> I stressed immensely about this chapter because there are a lot of key themes in it, and I would be forever grateful to anyone who decided to let me know what they thought! Good, bad, questions, I wanna hear it all!
> 
> Here's my [ my tumblr](https://flurryflair.tumblr.com/) if you wanna keep up with me over there =)


	19. Goodbye - Cas POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of... I'M SORRY!!! I never meant to skip a week out of the blue like that, but writer's block hit me *hard*, and this chapter just refused to collaborate. I feel awful I left you guys hanging for longer than planned, but I didn't want to put out something I wasn't sure of, this story and its readers deserve better <3
> 
> With no further ado; some very bad mornings, necessary conversations, and a tour <3 (This is 10K again, so you guys take it easy!!)
> 
> This chapter especially I gotta thank all the awesome people who helped me with this, from catching all my messy commas, to listening to me stress about this chapter, to shuffling all its pieces until they fit, you're the best, [ tipofmemory ](https://tipofmemory.tumblr.com/) , [ huckleberrycas ](https://huckleberrycas.tumblr.com/), [ wanderingcas ](https://wanderingcas.tumblr.com/) !

It’s a new morning and Castiel misses Dean. Misses him like a punch to his sternum, like the absence of him is absence of so much more than just a body.

He misses him in all the languages he knows, and yet none of them can really come close to describe how it actually feels like to wake up and know he won’t have him at his side.  
It’s a sneaky feeling, one he has no respite from. It’s the cold draft that envelops his chest, where Dean’s head used to lay; a Dean shaped hollow carved into his side, one that aches with every breath he takes.

Seeing him again the night before, letting their bodies gravitate towards one another until they were pressed so close together once more. The farce of an embrace that wasn’t truly one. Both of them straining for more, neither of them giving in. It hurt then, and it hurts even more now, when he’s cold and clammy and _alone_.

 _I miss you too_ , Dean had said. And he’d been so close, Castiel can still feel the exact shape of those words on his skin. He can’t help but wonder what it would have felt like, to lick them right off of Dean’s mouth.

There had been fire in Dean’s eyes; bright green embers that sparked but never burned him. Castiel had wanted him to reach out; had wanted him to close that distance between the two of them and glue their bodies together until they were sticky and spent. Until they had added even more regrets to their list.

The way Dean had looked, disheveled and rumpled, with his pink cheeks and the scruff on his jaw; with the desire in his gaze. Castiel remembers being grateful for the sturdy counter behind him; feeling like he might just lose any control of his limbs otherwise.

He feels as if he’s still drunk on the memory of Dean’s smell, the distinct quality of his damp skin.

A sizzle of desire runs through his veins now, making its way through the morning fog and settling deep in his gut. He licks his lips and lets his hand take the path Dean’s would have if he had only let him. A gentle touch around his neck, around a nipple, swirling and pinching until it’s hard, then down again, a tickle over his stomach, then lower, between his legs, cupping the hardness there.

It’d have felt so good, to feel Dean’s rough hand wrapped around him again, to rut against it until he came. His thighs tense as he starts pushing inside the circle of his own fist.

Eyes shut tight, he takes his mind back to that moment the night before, trapped between Dean’s arms in a steamy bathroom, about to let himself fall into a kiss. This time, he doesn’t pull back, doesn’t walk away; instead he tips his head forwards and pushes right into Dean’s mouth. The hand on Dean’s belly doesn’t stay put anymore; it slides lower, to rub between Dean’s legs, to curl around him, feel him get harder under his touch. Dean growls into his mouth and his belt makes a clicking sound when it hits the ground.

Alone in his bed, Castiel kicks the blanket off and abandons himself to the pleasure building in his gut. He’s sweating now, little beads of moisture collecting at his hairline, dripping down the sides. Dean would have licked it off, he thinks, would have let his tongue slide down the tendons of Cas’s neck, kissing all the way down his chest.

Castiel moans, chest heaving and arching towards a mouth that isn’t there.

The sound is jarring, wrong; doesn’t sound the way it did when he had stifled his pleasure into Dean’s neck.

The rhythmic sound of his fist hitting his pelvis is too loud, it covers all the little sighs and groans Dean’s pushing through his lips in Castiel’s mind.

 _I miss you,_ Dean had said, his voice broken and his eyes downturned. He’s not kissing Castiel anymore, he’s just standing there, anguish painting his handsome features. It’s all wrong, all over again. Castiel tries to get back to that wonderful picture, the one where he stopped running away from Dean and ran into him instead. But it’s fading now, too brittle to hold on to.

It’s the knowledge that everything he wants right now is safely contained inside a man who’s as guarded as he is open. A man who wanted him fiercely and Castiel denied, out of fear.

That knowledge weighs down on him, on his chest, on the hand wrapped around his now softening cock.

“Fuck,” he swears, arousal all curdled in his veins, like it was never even there in the first place.  
How pathetic, to let himself dream about a man he pushed away, a man he hurt. No wonder his body is rejecting this farce, Castiel doesn’t deserve the pleasure of release.  
He tucks his flaccid cock back in his underwear, shame slowing his every movement down.

He lays on the bed, sweat cooling tacky on his skin, tears leaking from his eyes so steadily he doesn’t even bother wiping them off. The only indication of time passing is the bright strip of sunlight peeking through the blinds. It gets lower and lower on the wall, until Castiel can’t see it without raising his head. It hurts to do, so he doesn’t.

He’s tired, all of a sudden, so tired. It’s impossible for him to feel as old as he is, and yet he does; feels the precise weight of every single millennia all hooked into his soul, weighing it down. And for the first time in his very long existence, he wants to sink with it, stop reaching for the surface.

What would it be, for Castiel the seraph to finally rest?

 _It wouldn’t look like this,_ he thinks, alone in a room that isn’t his own, wishing for a man who belongs to somebody else.

Had it not been for the mounting pressure in his bladder, he might have stayed curled in on himself for the whole day. As it is, he does get up eventually, and once he’s up he makes himself keep moving. From the bathroom to the closet, from his sweats into his pants. He’s not sure how he does it, isn’t sure it’s even _him_ doing it, feels as if his limbs are all being controlled by someone else, someone with a plan.

It’s like one action calls onto the next one; he doesn’t have to think; the white shirt comes after the black pants, and the blue tie comes after that. His laptop goes into the leather bag, middle pocket, and his phone goes in the one at the front, the car keys in his jacket. There’s something comforting in doing the same gestures he’s been doing for years, even if it isn’t his and Evan’s bed he’s waking up in, not his company he’s driving to.

It’s easier to pretend everything is still the same, when it _looks_ like it is.

He makes himself go to a coffee shop, the same one he’s been making himself go to every single day this past week, because that’s what he’d do if everything was as it should be.  
There he gets to keep up the pretense, just for a few hours, that he can still do this, live the life everyone around him seems to expect him to live. He sits alone, all prim and proper with his latte and his laptop; telling himself he’s going to get to the emails in his inbox, ending up watching other people go by instead.

Spending his time wishing he could get up from his little slice of space and right into them; ask them what they see when they look at him, because he’s been trying to look at himself in the mirror lately, but he really can’t tell anymore.

He doesn’t call Dean, though he wants to, oh so very badly.

It’s dark when he gets back, the emails sit unread in his inbox, the chasm in his chest isn’t any smaller. He falls asleep on top of the covers, and the quiet is deafening all around him.

\---

Two emails, one phone call and one argument. That’s all it takes to fully unravel Castiel’s life.

He doesn’t know that when he wakes up that day, on a morning that feels bright and warm, like the city has suddenly decided to plunge into summer already. It makes the storm roiling inside him feel even more like defeat.

He allows himself a moment to be lost inside that liminal space between sleep and alertness; where everything is blurry, and every sharp feeling has lost its edge, so much so that he can pretend it doesn’t hurt.

Dean lives in that space now, his hair, his smell, the taste of skin; they reside in those precious few seconds at the start of each day, when Cas can still tell himself nothing has changed.  
His days start with Dean’s eyes in his mind, and end with Dean’s name on his lips, calling on someone who can’t be there, because he pushed them away.

This morning his time wondering is cut short when his phone starts buzzing where it's lost somewhere in the sheets. It takes him more than three tries to actually grab it and he barely has time to blink before he accepts the call without even checking the ID.

“Hello?” He rasps, wondering if whoever is on the other end of the line will mind his words slurring.

“Good morning, is this Mister Castiel Novak of Green Grace?”

He glances back at the too bright screen to see if he recognises the number, but no luck there.  
“Um, yes, speaking. May I ask who’s calling?”

“Of course. This is Ian Lieberg, with Startup News Today. I was wondering if you were free to talk right now? It’s for an article I’m working on.”

Any other time, any other day, this would have been a welcome call. There used to be a time he couldn’t wait to share his knowledge, his ideas with whoever had the patience to listen. He rifles through the seemingly bottomless pit in his chest to find a shred of enthusiasm, but comes up empty handed. Still, it’s not the kid’s fault.

“Um- yeah. Sure, go ahead.”

“Thank you, Mr. Novak, I won’t take too much of your time, I imagine it must be quite a hectic day for you. I just wanted to collect your statement about the recent changes in leadership at Green Grace.”

He guesses he should have known the news would get to the media sooner or later. A glance at the date on the screen tells him it’s been over a week since he signed his shares off. Seems like so little ago.

“Would it be okay if I asked you a few questions?”

“Uh, yeah, yes. It’s fine,” he manages, clearing his throat and sitting up on the bed, like that’s going to affect things in any way, “I have to say, I’m not sure if me taking a step back is really worthy of an article? I’m sure you’re also aware that I’m still going to be working-”

“Oh. Um, no. I mean, sorry to interrupt you sir, but that’s not the change I was referring to. I meant to ask you about the announcement SandersCorp made this morning, about acquiring Green Grace?”

If Castiel’s brain was a record that would be the exact moment it would come to a screeching halt. It’s a jarring sound, high pitched and shrill, piercing through his thoughts.  
Breath gets stuck halfway through his airway, never makes it to his lungs, and Castiel already feels like he’s drowning.

“Mr. Novak?”

“No.” That’s all that comes out of his too dry throat. And he can picture the confusion on the poor guy’s face, but really, that’s not his problem.

“I’m so—”

“I apologize, Ian, but I—I have no statements to offer on this matter at the moment.”

“Oh, I understand, it’s just—”

“I have to go,” he blurts out and then closes the call over what was surely going to be some kind of plea.

The phone drops on the mess of blankets, and it doesn’t even make a sound.

That’s how it happens, in a moment like any other, with no gravity. Everything is the same, everything _feels_ the same, but he’s different now. Carries within him the knowledge of a betrayal heavy enough to tilt his whole world on its axis.

The morning doesn’t care, keeps on painting the buildings around him with its mellow light, like it has seen worse things come to pass.

“It can’t be,” he whispers to the empty room, as his mind races through a million and one scenarios so fast he can’t even begin to attempt grabbing one.

 _It can,_ the room echoes back at him, and he wishes it wasn’t so easy to believe it.

He barely even blinks as he slides a hand though the covers, roaming around until his fingers finally come into contact with his phone.

Evan, he should call Evan. He will know what this is about, he will tell Castiel this was all a mistake, that of course he didn’t go against his wishes and sold the company.  
Despite all their differences, their arguments, Evan cares for him, he would never do something like that.

Would he?

 _People who love each other don’t doubt their partner like this_ , he thinks. Shame is a shudder on his skin, leaves a trail of goosebumps behind.

He should call Evan, but he doesn’t.

He opens up a Google search instead, types in SandersCorp and presses enter.  
The easy way the articles immediately pop up, like this is news like any other, it makes him sick.

“SanderCorp announces surprise acquisition of Green Grace startup.”

“Andrew Casey, CEO of SandersCorp on recent GreenGrace deal.”

"Silicon Valley startup GreenGrace now property of SandersCorp.”

He opens one of them, and finds all his deepest fears neatly typed on the page. An impersonal, detached recount of a mildly interesting turn of events; a small green startup selling out to a big corporation. Yet another success story; yet another example of money buying out morals, depending on the point of view.

The articles are all short, to the point; they offer no details save for the same one picture of Evan, smiling his best smile, shaking hands with Casey under the GreenGrace sign. The same one Castiel has walked under every single day on his way to work, the one they chose together.  
They had argued for days about the color and the style of the logo; they had kissed under it once it was done.

The more Castiel looks at it, the more he struggles to recognize the man in the picture. Can that really be the same person he fell asleep with every night for so long? The same person who told him he loved him, that they should spend the rest of their days together? The same bright eyed boy who listened to his every thought like it was the most fascinating thing; who offered clothes and shelter and friendship?

His finger is swiping on the screen before he knows it, and he’s calling Evan.

It’d be foolish to hope right now, borderline insane, and yet Castiel can’t stop himself.  
For every ring of the line, his heart beats a thud. It’s a faltering rhythm, caught in the space between hope and reality.

It would have been better, had Evan answered, but he doesn’t. His phone rings and rings, and Castiel hopes and hopes, until he gets sent to voicemail again.

Can this really be it? This silence, a phone ringing in the empty, nobody on the other side to pick up the call. Can that really be the soundtrack to the ultimate unraveling of the last ten years of his life?

 _I never should have come here_ , he had told Dean, days before. He thinks about that now, with the tatters of his life rustling in the breeze; thinks that maybe coming here was the first good choice he made since becoming human, and he didn’t even know it.

He feels every bit of the failure he is; he sacrificed everything he had and somehow still managed to lose.  
He pushed Dean away, when everything in him screamed against it, when all he wanted to do was carve himself a space in Dean’s life, in his heart. It wouldn’t even have had to be a big one; Castiel would have been happy with a small nook, a dusty corner, big enough for him to sit and observe Dean’s life unfold in front of him.

There’s a cracking sound coming from his phone where his hand is clutching it too tight. He makes his fingers straighten one by one, and only then sees how badly they’re shaking.  
White noise buzzes loud in his ears and the room around him keeps going in and out of focus, like his eyes have just forgotten how to function.

The shadow of something dark claws at his heart, heavy and sticky like petrol, coating every inch as it struggles to keep beating beneath it. He thinks it’s panic at first, lets himself find the suitcase he stuffed his pills in after his fight with Dean.

It’s not until he’s holding two of them in his palm that he realizes that he doesn’t need them, that what he’s feeling isn’t panic, but anger.  
An all encompassing, consuming, painful anger, that burns thickly in his chest, smoke cloying his airways.

His phone buzzes on the bed and Castiel puts the pills back where he found them. He rushes to the bed, words already piling in his mouth; because this must be Evan calling back, the moment when Castiel earns himself the truth.

But it isn’t Evan. The screen blinks with an email from the venue he booked for the wedding, requesting a meeting to go over the fine details of his _special day_. Those are the actual words they use, and it doesn’t matter that it isn’t their fault, that of all the things Castiel is going to mourn, this is not one of them. All he knows is the fire inside him and the need to burn something to the ground before it consumes him whole.

His fingers stop shaking as he types a reply, as he tells whoever is on the other side to please cancel his reservation, because there won’t be a special day for him and Evan after all.

It’s unsettling really, how easy it is. It barely takes him an hour to request cancellations for the catering and the venue. Then the cake, the flowers.  
Once he starts they just keep falling off, one right after the other, in a silly little domino game that doesn’t really entertain him.

He wonders if it was like that for Evan too, as he sold everything they worked for. If he made one decision only and all the ones after just kinda fell into place, and he watched them go, never bothering to tell Castiel about it.

When he calls for the flowers he tells the kind woman to cancel the arrangements and send him a bunch of magnolias instead.  
He stares at them when they get delivered, and even in the warm light of his room, they don’t look like the ones by the cabin.

The picture he must make, still in his sweatpants, hair wild, staring longingly at a vase of stupid flowers that can barely recall the memory of something precious.  
Anger bleeds out of him with every hour that passes without a response, without an explanation. It seeps slowly into the carpet, a constant stream that soon leaves him empty, wondering why did it all matter in the first place

He slumps his head on the cool surface of the table, and the flowers watch over him as he wilts. He feels pathetic, in that moment, and weak, and all he wants is to feel a calloused hand caress its way into his hair, a heavy arm settle on his shoulders, and a low drawl that says everything’s gonna be fine.

He aches for it, aches for Dean.

It feels like a revelation, when he realizes he’s got nothing to hold him back anymore. That if he wants to see Dean, he can. That there’s a car parked downstairs that’ll take him straight to the cabin, where he can let himself rest, just for a minute.

\----

The city’s a labyrinth of crowded roads and red lights that linger too long. Castiel barely even notices, he drives in and out the lanes, a nearly reckless chase with a single minded goal. He just has to keep it together until he gets to the cabin. Everything will be okay then, Dean will know what to do.

When he gets there everything looks the same; same gravel path, same messy steps, same skinny shrubs. Same truck, with the same Dean just behind the door.  
Castiel steps up and knocks.

The door opens to a brown haired man; no, a boy. He’s tall and lanky and wears a confused frown on his face.

“Who are you?” he asks, a drawling voice that feels too low for his young face.

Castiel’s still trying to piece together who this is, why his face looks familiar and yet doesn’t.  
“Oh, I’m- I’m looking for Dean? Winchester?” he manages.

The boy nods and sends a small smile his way.  
“Dad! There’s a guy at the door asking for you!” he booms to the inside of the house.

Oh. _That’s_ who he is.

“Benjamin?” he hears himself asking, snapping out of his stupor long enough to slip a question through.

“Um— Yeah? How do you—” Ben looks even more confused now.

Rapid footsteps and then a sound like Dean’s socked feet sliding on the floor.

“Cas? What’s goin’ on?”  
There’s concern in Dean’s voice, and kindness, and Castiel wants to let himself fall into him, hide his face in the crook of Dean’s arm and not come out until he knows it’s safe again.  
He takes a breath to try to explain but it cracks into a sob.

“Shit. Ben, move. Cas, get in, you’re scaring me.”

He’s so fast to let Castiel in; there isn’t the barest hint of anger or confusion on his face. Like _of course_ he’s opening his life wide open, just because Castiel asked.  
It’s almost enough to make him turn around and leave. Jump into this car that doesn’t even belong to him, and push it forwards until both he and the car run out of fuel.

But then Dean’s right there, all worried, soft eyes, and a warm palm sliding down his back.  
Castiel wonders how anyone would be able to walk away from that.  
Was it him even? Was it him who turned his back on Dean? It seems so impossible now.

Dean guides him to the couch, and they’re both pretending like Castiel doesn’t know exactly where it is already.  
It’s a strange little picture; with him collapsed on Garth’s rickety couch, Dean hovering at his side, like he’s about to pass out at any second, like Dean’s ready to catch him if he does.  
Ben peeking over his father’s shoulder, trying to get a good look at this stanger now holding everyone’s attention.

 _Does he know,_ Castiel wonders _, that I took his dad from him?_

_Does he know I’m the reason why his family is broken?_

“Cas, hey,” Dean’s palm is tentative on his shoulder, “what’s wrong?” he asks.

Castiel looks up at him, “He sold it,” he rasps, and it feels strange to finally be saying the words out loud.

“Sold what? Are you—”

“Evan. He—he sold the company. Our company.” This time it feels real, and the words char his lips as they pass them.

There’s a confused expression on Dean’s face, like he’s seeing the pieces of the puzzle but they’re just not making sense together, “The fuck?” he whispers, and Castiel feels a buzzing urge in his cheeks, like he’s about to smile.  
He’s not sure what actually comes out, but there’s _something_ now curving his lips.

It must not be a very reassuring sight, because Dean’s concern doesn’t ease up one bit and he slides next to him on the couch. Their thighs brush and Castiel has this urge to just climb in Dean’s lap and anchor himself there.  
He remembers that he can’t do that now. He lost that privilege when he chose Evan and the company over Dean. When he did what needed to be done; when he did the right thing.

Bitterness pools in his eyes and he squeezes them tight under his fingers.

“Cas, hey. You gotta explain it to me, man. Like, pretend like I’m five. I thought you guys had founded it together? How can he sell something that ain’t his?”

Something like a laugh bubbles its way through Cas’s chest, until it’s in his throat and it’s too hard to stop it.

“I signed them off, Dean. My shares.” It comes out like a choked confession, slipping through the grimace on his face. “He asked me to sign them off and I just did it. Just like that,” he snickers.

“What—I mean, when?” Dean’s frown is getting deeper and deeper, and Ben isn’t even trying to pretend he’s not listening in anymore. His face peeks from over Dean’s shoulder, eyes wide and curious. Castiel can’t blame him. Humans did always enjoy watching others fall.

“When he was here last time. Came to the hotel with the papers and he just—he asked me to sign and I did. I never thought he’d do this, but I guess I should have known better.”

“I don’t get it though. If you didn’t wanna leave the company then why did you sign?”

Dean looks at him, the earnest softness in his eyes, like he’s pained and he’s pained for Castiel. “That was me making it up to him, Dean.” Castiel says it with as much kindness as he can muster, wondering if Dean even remembers their conversation.

Dean’s expression immediately morphs into one of anger and disdain. Castiel can feel himself shrinking on the couch, waiting for the inevitable explosion to happen.

“That fuckin— Piece of shit little rat. Can he— I mean— The fuck—” Dean stammers, eyes and hands moving wildily around, and Castiel almost thinks it looks like he’s searching for something to hit, take his anger out on. “Can he even do this? Without telling you?”

“Yes. I mean, not him alone, he had to have the board’s approval. Guess he had enough time to work on that with me gone,” he realizes as he says it. It dawns on him, painting everything he’s lived these past few weeks in a different light. Something dark and ominous. Something he can’t even believe he had managed to miss. “He was the one telling me to take a break, come here. He never even asked me when I’d be back.”

“Wait, you mean—didn’t you come here for the wedding?” Dean asks, frowning, bewildered, like maybe realization is hitting him too. “Cas, a person would have to be a different kind of fucked up to do—to plan something like that.”

Castiel feels like sobbing out a laugh.

Evan isn’t one to do anything by mistake. He’s a planner, and a meticulous one at that. Castiel has often teased him about it during their years together; the painstaking way he laid everything out, calculating every risk, every potential outcome. Castiel had called him a mastermind before, and they’d laughed about it.

Now he has to wonder, was this his plan all along? How long has Evan been thinking about this, slowly and surely slipping the company from right under Castiel’s feet?

Was the wedding an excuse from the beginning? Nothing more than yet another business transaction; another rope to bind Castiel even closer to himself?

Was there ever anything but control? Was there ever anything even resembling love and respect?

Shame is a shiver that runs down his spine, from the base of his neck right down to his chest. She has long, pointed fingers, and a laugh like a funeral parade.  
Castiel lets his head hang down low, he deserves this. Deserves to be used and taken for the fool he is. Evan is just doing what he’s supposed to; look out for himself only.

It becomes almost unbearable then, to look at Dean, to make himself see just how green his eyes are and how kind. A chasm opens up in Castiel’s chest; it’s noisy, the loud parting of a deep sea, splintering in the middle to let him walk through to the other side.

There’s a hand on his shoulder, and it’s attached to Dean.  
“Hey, you spaced out for a second there,” he looks at the little indents of Dean’s fingers on his shirt, and Dean lets his hand fall away, clearing his throat, “you, uh—you talked to him yet?”

“I tried, but he’s not picking up,” and he can’t bring himself to look at Dean, the pity surely hiding in his eyes.

Dean bristles, “Fucking son of a bitch, coward piece of shit. He can’t get away with this, can he?” he asks, like he’s begging Castiel to prove him wrong.

“He already has,” he shrugs.

Dean crumples on the empty seat next to him, all heavy limbs and heavier sighs. “Cas, I—I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he says in the end, his voice splintering and breaking in places, the veneer of anger cracking, leaving the bare bones of him exposed.  
The way he curls in on himself, a big man made small, taking on the weight of a guilt that doesn’t even belong to him, it’s enough to break Castiel’s heart all over again.

“No, I— I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come here,” he says, because it’s true, because he’s been involving Dean in his chaos rather than dealing with it himself this whole time; and Dean deserves better than that.

“Cas, it’s fine,” says Dean, right at the same time as Ben scoffs. It’s a tiny upturn of his lips, but Castiel catches it, it’s enough to signal him that he’s not wanted there. Not that he can blame the kid, he knows he doesn’t.

“I apologize, you— You guys must have something planned, I don’t—”

“We do,” answers Ben, “got a UT tour scheduled in the morning. Family day and all.”  
Cas’s blood actually goes stale in his veins. He didn’t even consider that Lisa might be there. He’s already halfway up the couch when Dean catches him.

“”Lis— um, Ben’s here alone,” he says, holding Cas’s gaze like he knows exactly what he’s thinking.

“Yeah, mom was supposed to be here too, but she’s at the hospital with Jack, so—”

Cas’s insides run cold. “The hospital—Dean, what—”

“Ben, stop it,” Dean growls, and Castiel can see him for the stern father he can be. “It’s fine. _Will_ be fine. Little guy fell off the swing and landed on his leg weird. They just wanna make sure he’s okay. He’ll be— he’ll be fine.” Dean says it with conviction and yet his eyes betray him. They often do.

“You don’t know that,” Ben whispers, somewhat petulantly.

“Yeah well, someone still had to take you on this tour. If something’s wrong with Jack’s leg we can be there tomorrow night anyway,” Dean says it like he’s closing the discussion once and for all.

Castiel doesn’t see it, but he can easily imagine the sulky way Ben is rolling his eyes. “I should go get started on dinner,” he sighs in the end, and Castiel is grateful for the reprieve, he doesn’t think he’d have handled a family argument well.

They both watch Ben as he walks to the kitchen to avoid looking at one another, silence buzzing between them now that they’re alone again.  
Castiel’s fingers are already curling around his car keys, knowing he has overstayed his welcome, that he shouldn’t even have come here in the first place.

It feels selfish to even be in this cabin, in Dean’s presence; to barge inside with his issues and his messed up life and ruin Dean’s time with his son.  
He almost wants to apologize for always making things worse, coming in with nothing to offer and everything to ask for, but he knows Dean wouldn’t let him.

“I— I should leave you to it then,” he makes himself say, eyes firmly planted on the peeling wallpaper of the small living room.

Dean sighs, a heavy thing that rushes out of his lungs in one long hiss.  
“Sit down Cas,” he orders, “I ain’t letting you drive out right now. Garth’s gone for the day anyway. You, uh—you can take the couch,” he grumbles as he gets up.

And Castiel wants to argue against that, he does. But then Dean’s walking around the couch, and he’s resting his hand on Castiel’s shoulder, “I’ll go tell Ben to add a plate. You just stay, all right?” he says. So what’s Castiel to do then? When that single point of contact has goosebumps running all over his skin; when he wants nothing more than to take Dean’s hand and curl into it and never leave again.

“Okay,” he murmurs, and Dean squeezes his shoulder.

So he stays, eats the burgers Dean and Ben make, and then spends the night at the cabin.

When it’s time to sleep Dean walks up to him with downturned eyes and offers an old t-shirt of his that Castiel had taken to wearing during his week there. Castiel folds himself on the small couch and bids him goodnight, trying not to breathe in Dean’s scent too deeply.

He doesn’t sleep that night, not really; he just lays there and listens to the wind rustle the leaves outside, to the walls groaning with age. Listens to Dean and Ben moving on the other side of the wall, wondering if Dean’s also awake, eyes wide in the darkness, thinking about him. Remembering how it felt to huddle close together under the covers, knowing they’d still be intertwined come morning, knowing the sunlight would bathe them in golden light.

It’s a painful and pointless exercise, but Castiel doesn’t know how to refrain, when Dean’s smell is in his nostrils, his clothes on his skin.

It’s past four a.m., and he’s at the stage of insomnia where he’s pretending that laying down with his eyes shut somehow equals sleep, when he hears a quiet shuffling of feet on the floor.  
He cranes his head towards the shadowy figure walking down the short hallway.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Dean asks him when their eyes meet.

He looks tired, scruff on his cheeks, hair messy and flat on one side. His clothes are rumpled and Castiel knows he’d feel the lingering warmth of sleep on his skin if he got close enough.  
It’s hard to tell himself not to, but he manages.

“Yeah.” He nods, sitting up on the couch, the thin blanket pooling at his waist. Dean doesn’t say anything for a second, just stands there, bleary eyed and weary, slouched against the wall.

Time stretches between them, and Castiel knows he should make himself look away, but he can’t.  
Eventually Dean seems to decide something, because he peels himself from the wall and walks to the couch, sitting heavily right by Castiel’s feet.

Castiel waits for him to say something, but the words never come. All Dean does is tip his head back and let his eyes slip closed. His eyelashes are so long, their shadows curl gentle over his cheekbones, moonlight colors their tips blue. Castiel is mesmerized by the sight, basks in the glory of getting to see Dean Winchester soft and unguarded, the sheer honor of being trusted to get so close.

He’s so distracted by the sight, he almost misses it when Dean’s hand drops over his socked feet. Before he can jerk away in surprise Dean’s fingers are coiling around his ankle; he rubs slow circles on his skin, his touch so sure and achingly familiar, and Castiel finds himself melting into it. His heartbeat flutters in his chest.

“I cancelled the wedding.” The words somehow leak out of him without him knowing. He watches as the surprise spreads over Dean’s features; the uptick of his eyebrow, the tension around his mouth. The pressure around his ankle increases but Dean stays silent.  
”I don’t know what happens next,” Castiel confesses, voice thin.

“‘S gon’ be fine, Cas,” Dean mumbles, eyes still closed, breaths even, his hand squeezing Cas’s calf gently “‘s all gonna be fine.”

For a second, Castiel believes him.

He keeps looking at Dean’s profile in the quiet darkness, blinking slow until his eyes slip closed too, his breathing matching Dean’s.  
It’s not a good position—a six foot man cramped in one tiny square of a rickety couch—but his toes end up buried under Dean’s thigh, and Dean’s fingers are a loose circle around his leg, and Castiel feels the warmth of him like morning light on his skin.

When his eyes get heavy with sleep, he lets himself fall.

Come morning, Dean is still there, slouched over his portion of the couch in what looks like an extremely uncomfortable position, his mouth open and snoring a little. Castiel smiles as he aches.

It’s early enough that Ben must still be asleep, dawn has barely started to peek on the horizon, and Dean looks like he could use the extra sleep. So Castiel gets up and guides Dean’s lax body to lay fully on the couch. Dean stirs when he tucks the blanket around him and looks confused until he sees Cas, then he just smiles sleepily up at him and goes right back down. “Night, Cas,” he whispers.

Castiel’s hands tremble a little as he makes coffee but nobody has to know about that.

“He comin’ with to the tour?” Ben asks Dean a while later over breakfast, eyes curious but not unkind.

Castiel is ready to say that of course he isn’t, he has imposed on them more than enough already; he doesn’t want to intrude on their time.

“Yeah, he is,” Dean replies after a sip of coffee. “Cas here is a smart cookie, figured we need someone who’s actually _been_ to a university before,” he says as he’s still chewing a bite of cereal, and Castiel would interrupt him if he wasn’t so distracted by it.

“Uncle Sam’s been,” Ben teases, smiling like he knows what his dad’s going to say already.

“Ah! Uncle Sam’s full of crap. He was there for like three days. But Cas has got an actual degree,” he snickers, seemingly pleased with himself.

Ben shrugs, turning to Castiel with a grin, “So, what’s your degree in?” he asks him. His curiosity is bright and genuine, and Castiel finds that he really wants to answer, so he does.

Once breakfast is over they start getting ready, and Ben doesn’t say anything when Castiel knows exactly where to find the towels and the extra pair of shower slippers.

Dean takes him aside while Ben’s changing, “You okay?” he asks, watching Castiel lace up his shoes.

Castiel shrugs.

“You don’t gotta come to this thing if you got stuff to do, you know,” Dean starts, a hand rubbing the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed. “I just thought—I dunno—maybe you shouldn’t be alone,” he finishes, and he doesn’t look at Castiel.

Leave it up to Dean to give him the escape route he most certainly doesn’t deserve, “No I—I don’t have anything else to do,” Castiel says. It’s true, his phone is still sitting silent in his pocket. “It might be nice, to come with,” he says, and he means it.

Dean smiles, relief mellowing his features and it’s like the first gust of cool wind on Cas’s skin after an endless, suffocating summer. He smiles back.

“Don’t ditch me,” Dean orders before they leave, finger waving in Castiel’s face as they climb into their respective cars. Like Castiel was going to do anything of the sort. They drive out to the university, Castiel following the Impala on the interstate, and it almost feels as if the last week hasn’t happened at all. Castiel lowers the window and wonders for how long he can run before life truly catches up with him.

The campus is beautiful, Castiel realizes with a sort of detached interest. The trees are big and have seen almost as much life as he has; he finds it fitting that they’d stand guard here.

Ben is a bright kid, soon enough his curiosity overruns his diffidence and he showers Castiel with question after question; about his studies and his company and his goals. It’s strange to talk about GreenGrace like something that doesn’t belong to him anymore. He still believes in it, still feels proud of what they accomplished, and maybe that’s all he’s going to be left with going forward; a vague sense of pride and a bunch of stories growing older by the minute.

“See, told ya he’d be useful,” Dean smiles at Ben after a particularly involved series of questions. It’s interesting, observing them together; Castiel can see all the little marks Dean has made on his son. It’s in the way he walks, the tilt of his smile when he’s being cheeky, the kindness and understanding in his eyes.

It’s in the defensiveness too; the way he glances sideways at Castiel from time to time, like he’s trying to figure out what his angle is.  
Castiel hopes he doesn’t.

A bubbly girl guides them on a tour and they shuffle about with all the other families; through the main buildings, the tower, the dorms. Castiel nods and smiles and tries not to feel out of place; with his stuffy suit and his tie, sweating in the early summer heat, kidless and out of place.

“Let me tell you, young man, you have a beautiful family, it’s inspiring really!” an older woman laughs at one point, her hand on Ben’s arm, before being whisked away by her apologetic daughter.

Dean glances at him out of the corner of his eye, smiling; it’s a tight lipped, wistful, blushing sort of thing that strikes Castiel square in the chest and melts down to the core of him.  
Their knuckles brush together and there’s nothing he wants more than to take Dean’s hand in his.

He lets himself indulge in the fantasy, just for a second, to think that there’s a universe where that woman is right, and Dean is his and they are the family he never knew he could have.  
Yearning blooms inside him, so sudden he loses track of everything else around him. Then Ben bumps into him, and Castiel slams back into reality.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts, suddenly ashamed. Ben’s eyes are guarded, searching. He glances at his father, a few paces ahead now, then back at Castiel, his lips twisting like he’s about to say something. Castiel’s heart is a steady drum in his chest, his mouth his dry.

“Come on, catch up,” Dean waves them forwards; Ben has to keep his questions for himself, and Castiel can swallow his lies back down.

By the time the guide brings them back to the main building, their arms are full of brochures and Dean has been grumbling about out of state tuition rates for over an hour. They slump on a bench by the side, listening to Ben rave about the amenities. Castiel smiles even though his feet ache in his shoes and his shirt is sticking to his skin.

Suddenly, his phone starts buzzing in his pocket, startling him out of his mellowed out state. An invisible hand reaching out to yank him out of this reality he doesn’t really belong in. It was nice while it lasted.

“Evan,” he blurts, and he feels Dean stiffening next to him, “I—I have to take this,” and he’s getting up from the bench, feeling the scorch of Dean’s gaze on his back.

“Hello, Castiel,” Evan greets, calm as anything. Suddenly the rage that had been simmering down is back at full force.

“Spare me the pleasantries please.” His voice shakes but it doesn’t matter, he needs to _know_. “Is it true? You sold it?”

“So you’re still angry about it, I see,” Evan sighs. “I had hoped that given enough time, you’d be able to see past your- sentimentalities.”

Rage is smoke in his lungs. “How dare you mock me. You went behind my back. You knew I would have never sold, you knew—”

“That you’d be unable to get over yourself and see that selling was the only logical next step? That we wouldn’t be able to keep growing on our own?”

“I didn’t _want_ to keep growing,” he growls, “we were doing well, we were—”

“Look, Castiel, I didn’t invest all this time and all this money to do _well_ , anybody with a half brain could have done what we did, there’s nothing _grand_ about it,” Evan snarks, and it’s like finally seeing past all the fake politeness.  
“The offer Sanders made us was incredible, and you still wouldn’t even consider it. What else was I supposed to do? You clearly were not fit to make these decisions anymore, you had to take a step back. I just did what needed to be done.”

“By lying to me? Manipulating me?” The truth is such an ugly thing sometimes; words stick in his throat all the way up. “Sending me here so I couldn’t get in your way?”

Evan groans, “There you go again with your emotions, can’t you see you’re a slave to them? How do you expect me to deal with someone who can’t even be rational?”

“We could have talked about it, you could have been upfront about everything and I would have listened! I had to find out about this from a reporter, Evan, you didn’t even have the courage to tell me yourself.”

“Why would I have done that? I don’t know if you forgot, but you signed your shares off, you’re no more entitled to information than any other employee—”

“Really? Is that seriously where you’re going with this? That I was no different than _some guy_ on the third floor you spoke to once in the elevator?”

“What do you want me to tell you, Castiel?”

“I don’t know. That you’re sorry, that something happened, that you meant to tell me all along.” He sucks a breath in, it echoes in his chest. “That I wasn’t just a _pawn_ to you, that when you asked me to marry you, you meant it.”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean, you know that. I never had anything against marrying you, Castiel. You’re smart, you’re driven, we could make incredible things together. But you need to start listening to me and get your emotions under control, I won’t tolerate this nonsense much longer, I’m warning you.”

“You’re warning—Are you even listening to yourself?” There’s a hand in his hair, and it’s his, and he’s about to tear them all out.

“Are _you_? Because I don’t like your tone at all right now, I won’t entertain these absurdities. It’s a shame, really, you used to be so much more—controlled, I liked that,” Evan muses, a disinterested tone tinging his words. “Look, I seriously don’t have time for this right now. I called you back as a courtesy, but I have a lot on my plate. You know where the house is. You wanna come back, you know where to find me; we can even talk about the wedding. I’d consider it if I were you, just get that attitude under control and things can be fine again. Think about it Castiel,” he says, and then he’s closing the call on Castiel’s stammering reply.

The feedback static echoes in his ear and Castiel stands there, perfectly still, a statue of slow leaking anger and shame. It’s noisy around him, people chattering and birds singing, and his whole entire life crumpling onto itself. He’s slow to lower the phone from his ear, a stilted movement.

Breath still wheezes in and out of his lungs and he wonders idly if he’s just too shocked to move. Fury and resentment curdle in his chest, anchoring him heavy where he is.  
He keeps his eyes stuck on the pavement in front of him, the bricks swim in and out of his vision.

He sees the past ten years burning to the ground before his eyes; like he’s falling free while staying solidly still, body safe and mind on fire. Nothing matters to him right then, just to stop falling so fast, hurtling towards the surface.

It’s Dean, once again, who catches him.

It’s the gentle pressure of a broad palm on his back, fingers curling around his own and slipping his phone out of his slack hand.  
It’s his name being uttered over and over, an equally concerned and kind tone that has him wanting to curl up warm in it.

He lets himself be guided to a bench under the shade. It’s cool there and Castiel heaves in gulps of air like he’s been starving for it. He’s clumsy as he pops a couple buttons open, his knuckles bumping against the slick hollow of his throat. His senses come back to him slowly and one by one.

Darkness still tinges the corners of his vision when he can finally focus on Dean’s face in front of him.

“Cas, hey, come back,” Dean is whispering, so close, his face flushed and frowning. “Please tell me you’re alright.” His hands are cradling Cas’s face on both sides, blocking everything around him. Dean’s face is everything he can see.

Castiel is fine, he’s okay and he should tell Dean so, but he doesn’t think he can speak just yet.  
It’s easier, much easier, to inch forwards just a tiny bit, until the tip of his nose bumps into Dean’s. He’s so close then he can feel Dean’s little gasp right on his own skin and it’s the first thing that feels real to him. He pushes forward again, until he feels the yielding pressure of Dean’s lips on his.

It’s quick then, a brief press of lips that barely lasts ten seconds, just enough for Castiel to remember what feeling even feels like. It’s enough for the darkness to crawl back wherever it came from.

It’s with reluctance that he pulls back, the smack of their lips pulling apart somehow reverberating in the space between them. Dean’s eyes are closed now, and Castiel wants to trace over his lids with his fingertips, tickle the blush deep into his cheeks.

He settles for taking Dean’s hand in his, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, between a scar and a freckle.  
“I’m okay now,” he says and Dean opens his eyes again.

“Cas, I-” Dean’s eyes are doing a skittish dance all around him, glancing sideways at the people still milling everywhere.

Castiel’s blood runs cold, “Ben- Dean, I’m so-”

He makes for dropping Dean’s hand, but Dean tightens his fingers, doesn’t let him go far.

“He’s not here. He’s—checking out the gym. It’s fine,” Dean stammers, then licks his lips. He probably does so like he has done a million times before, fast and instinctual, but it lasts for a hundred years in Cas’s eyes.

Dean looks at him like he knows exactly what he’s thinking and he’s not sure how to feel about it. His gaze drops on Cas’s mouth too.  
“What happened, Cas?” he asks eventually, peeling his eyes from Cas’s lips.

So Castiel tells him, about the little there is to know. Dean listens and runs his calloused thumb over Cas’s knuckles, it tickles a bit, in a good way.

“I think he had been planning this for a while. Or at least since it became clear I wouldn’t budge on the sale,” his voice shakes but he pushes through. “He knew I wouldn’t let him do it, so he made it so I wouldn’t be there when it happened. I guess he figured he’d find some way of explaining it away to me when I came back. Like if I had enough time to think about it I’d have to see his way was the right one.”

“Dick,” Dean growls under his breath.

“He said he has nothing against marrying me still, as long as I get my _attitude_ under control,” he huffs, and a bitter chuckle rolls off his tongue.

Dean’s hand twitches in his. He’s not laughing. “Do you want to?” he asks, eyes suddenly guarded.

Castiel’s chest does a strange thing, collapsing into itself like the leaking roof of an old house; the rattle of the broken pieces of his ribcage echoing deep in his stomach.  
“No Dean, I don’t want to,” he says it directly to Dean’s eyes, and it slips easy past his lips.

Dean’s shoulders sag a little, even though he tries to mask it with a shrug, Castiel can still see the relief mellowing him out. It makes what he’s about to do even harder.

“That’s, uh- good. I mean, not _good_ , but yeah. He’s a piece of shit Cas, and you- you deserve better than that, whoever it is.” Dean doesn’t look at him when he says it, but it’s easy to hear the truth in his words.  
“So- I mean- What happens now?” Dean finally asks.

If there was a way to stretch this moment out forever, Castiel would take it. He’d sell everything he owns and has ever owned, just in order to buy himself a handful more of this; Dean’s warm palm in his, hope blushing red across his cheeks.

Like the last few seconds of a late summer sunset; following a peach sticky sun melting across the sky until there’s nothing left but a thin line of blazing gold just above the horizon. Wishing for it to never go and knowing it’s already gone.

“I have to go back to California,” Castiel says, and as the horizon goes dark, Dean’s eyes do too. Castiel makes himself push forward, “I have to deal with this, in person.”

“I’ll come with you,” Dean says immediately, his shoulders squaring up like he’s ready to jump into the fight, fists first, “that slimy dick deserves a lesson anyway.” He takes his hand back from Castiel’s and leaves his palm cold, “I just gotta figure out how and then we can go. Ben drove here, he can drive back. Maybe even take Baby, hell, he’d probably love that—”

“Dean—” Castiel lays a hand against Dean’s arm where it was waving widely in the air. “Dean, stop. It’s okay, you—you don’t have to come. This is something I have to do on my own.” He makes himself smile, trying to soften the blow, even as he knows Dean’s going to feel the rejection like a lash on his back.

Dean recoils. “That’s bullshit, Cas. You dealt with shit on your own for ten years. I wasn’t there when you needed me, but I’m here now. And I wanna help. I _can_ help.” His eyes are wide and his mouth is a thin line.

“I know you can,” _and I want you to, so badly_ , he doesn’t say. “But I’m not the only one who needs you right now.” He knows his words hit Dean right where it matters, he sees them land.  
“Your family—they need you more than I do. This is my mess, and I should have dealt with it a long time ago. I won’t burden you with this.” It comes out with more resolution than he feels, and he’s grateful for it.

“But I _want_ to do it, that ain’t what a burden—” Dean’s protests are getting weaker by the minute.

“Dean, I know. Please trust me on this. I can handle it.” He isn’t that sure about that, but he’ll pretend, for Dean’s sake.

Dean’s shoulders slump, his breath rolling out of him as he passes a hand roughly over his face. “I know you can, Cas, it’s just—” Dean’s eyes drop down to the ground, “I don’t want you to go. I don’t wanna lose you again.” He says it so quietly Cas barely hears it over the noise around them.

Castiel doesn’t have to think about what to say next, it’s a whisper that punches straight out of his chest. “You won’t,” he says, and his hand looks perfect, perched lightly over Dean’s cheekbone. “I’ll go deal with Evan and you’ll take care of your family and when it’s time, you’ll find me and I’ll be waiting,” he tries to smile, because this feels like a goodbye but isn’t one, not really.

The green in Dean’s eyes is melting, but he’s not gonna let it spill over. He looks at Castiel for a long second, eyes searching for answers Castiel isn't sure he has.

Then he sighs small, nuzzles into Cas’s palm a little, eyes closed. When he finally opens them again he looks determined, “It’s a date then?” he asks through a wobbly smile.

Castiel’s entire being _aches_ for him, “It’s a date,” he confirms. He lets himself enjoy the sight in front of him for as long as he dares, even knowing that it won’t ever be enough.

“Say goodbye to Ben for me?” he says eventually, when it stops feeling like he’s gonna shatter with every step he takes away from Dean.

Dean nods, doesn’t take his eyes off Castiel as he gets up from the bench and begins the slow and messy process of making himself walk away. He sits there, tanned forearms leaning on his own knees, late afternoon sun painting him gold. Castiel can’t help but step forward and leave a kiss on Dean’s forehead, one last point of contact between them, one last _I’m going, but I’m not leaving._

He doesn’t say goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, that was A LOT, I know, I'm kinda exhausted too. And I also know a lot of you have been looking forward to this moment for a long time, I hope everything feels clearer now and that you guys can finally see that happy ending getting closer. It might not seem like it, but I promise it's coming and it's coming SOON! <3
> 
> This story is getting close to the end now and I'm so grateful for every single person who has made it so far, you guys are my main source of motivation in writing this!
> 
> There was so much happening in this chapter, I would LOVE to hear your thoughts; whatever they are. Seriously, I'm a needy author with a demanding fic and nothing makes me happier than reading your comments, if you leave one you'll have a place in my heart forever <3
> 
> ((I won't make promises cause this fic seems to never want to end, but I'm going to try and update weekly for the last three chapters. Worst case scenario you'll still see me in two weeks, I promise I'm not going anywhere!))
> 
> You can always come say hi on [ tumblr](https://flurryflair.tumblr.com/) =)
> 
> Fun fact: I actually gave campus tours at UT one semester, that scene is 40% plot and 60% me missing Austin. Hook 'em! 😂


	20. The road - Dean POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost late with this but I made it! 
> 
> I'm super excited for you guys to read this chapter, it's a little different and I really hope the "new" style will make sense to you! We're also back to a normal length, no more 10k to digest in one go!  
> So here you go; a list, family, the road <3
> 
> Big thanks to everyone who took the time to look at this [ tipofmemory ](https://tipofmemory.tumblr.com/) , [ huckleberrycas ](https://huckleberrycas.tumblr.com/), [ wanderingcas ](https://wanderingcas.tumblr.com/) <3 <3 <3

It’s been two weeks since Cas left Austin; all Dean’s left with is a silent phone, two very full and beat-up suitcases, and a list.

He makes the list the same night Cas leaves, in a sudden burst of energy and productivity; he makes it because that’s what people in movies do when they decide to uproot their whole entire lives.  
Because that’s what Dean needs to do, or at least that’s the plan.

It became clear to him as he was watching Cas walk away, a dark silhouette against the golden light, staunchly moving forwards and not letting himself look back at Dean. There had been a purpose in his steps that hadn’t been there before, and Dean could picture him walking all the way to California, right to his shitty ex’s office and just smite him where he sat. It made for a good mental image.

If Cas’s dealing with his crap, then Dean should too.

So Dean takes his son home, and later that night, when Ben suddenly drops his fork mid-bite and asks him if there’s anything going on between him and Cas, Dean looks him in the eye and makes himself answer honestly.  
“Yeah,” he says, and he watches Ben’s emotions flicker on his face, too fast for Dean to figure out. He waits with his heart in his throat.

“Okay,” Ben nods eventually, frowning, then smiling a little. “Tell me about it?” he asks, so Dean does. He starts from the beginning and keeps on going until their food grows cold.

It’s terrifying, to lay his own faults out for his son to see, but his kid is a man now, and Dean owes him the truth. He leaves the gory details out, but doesn’t stop himself from laughing when he thinks of something funny Cas did, and he knows there’s a sappy smile on his face by the time he’s done with his story.

“I think I like him,” Ben says in the end, “he’s a little, you know—strange I guess, serious. But yeah, seemed like a good dude,” he shrugs.

“Yeah, I like ‘im too,” Dean smiles.

“So you don’t know when he’s coming back? Or where? What about his dick fiance?”

“Nope, got nothin’ on that.” Warm beer swirls at the bottom of Dean’s glass and he doesn’t let himself dwell on the fact.

“Well—how are you supposed to find him then?”

“I ain’t worried about that. When the time comes, I’ll find him.” He says it with all the conviction he can muster, with all the surety he saw in Cas’s eyes when he said it himself.

Ben’s frowning, confused and a little skeptical on his side of the table, but Dean doesn’t let that deter him. He can’t.

His phone weighs a thousand pounds in his pocket, but he’s not going to check it. He decided as soon as Cas turned around to walk away, whatever happens next, it’s something they gotta deal with on their own.

It’s when Ben finally goes to bed that night that Dean writes the list; takes a battered paper out of a sketchbook and starts jotting down points. Things he wants to do, things he needs to deal with, things he won’t ever be able to get but desperately wants anyway, because certain things you really can’t help.

It ends up being a decently long list and Dean knows it doesn’t really matter, in the grand scheme of things, but every day he makes himself look at it and repeat the items in his mind, from start to finish, like that’ll get him closer to actually get them all done.

The list starts with “figure out work”, which is a lot easier said than done. He’s still got orders to fulfill, and more pending requests than he’s ever had before.

So as soon as Ben’s on the road back to Lawrence, Dean shuts himself in his workshop and he pushes his tools and his arms as hard as he can, probably harder than he should.  
The ache in his muscles at the end of each day helps him forget the invisible one nestled in his chest, so he welcomes it.

He speeds through the last few unfulfilled orders he has, fueled by the need to burn out all the thoughts about Cas, about how his phone has been silent for so long he’s almost losing hope Cas will ever get back at him.

Garth takes to packing him a small lunch in the morning, when he knows Dean’s gonna shut himself in the workshop and not come out for the rest of the day. He never really says anything about it, just leaves the bag on the table for Dean to take and that’s it.  
It makes Dean feel begrudgingly good, taken care of, even though Garth’s culinary skills leave a lot to be desired.

He isn’t sure how to thank Garth for any of it; his friendship, his support, his dry sandwiches, so instead he fixes all the crooked steps of the front porch and shrugs when Garth tells him he shouldn’t have done that.

In the end, it’s all worth it. Clients are impressed when they pick up their orders, all big smiles and bigger checks. They tell him they’re gonna call him, wherever he ends up setting up shop, and Dean feels hope flooding in his chest and his cheeks.

In two weeks he hands out more business cards than he ever thought he would and when he thinks about Ben’s college fees, they don’t feel as ominous as they did at first.

“You’re really takin’ off kid,” his supplier says after agreeing to keep doing business with him, slapping him hard on the back. Dean thinks of the growing numbers in his bank account and the glowing reviews on the Yelp page Ben set up for him, and he can’t help but smile back.  
“Guess I am.”

The list goes on with “move out of the cabin”, so that’s what Dean does next.

He tells Garth over a lukewarm beer one night, and pretends to be annoyed when he reaches out across the rickety table and drags Dean into a hug. It’s a teary eyed and soft kinda thing that Dean really wishes he could say he didn’t enjoy one bit.  
“I’ll miss you, buddy,” Garth tells him, clicking the necks of their sweaty bottles together, and Dean can’t help but reciprocate the sentiment.

He calls Lisa and they decide he’s gonna move in the guest room for a while, until they’re ready to make the move to Indiana.

The list must be working, because things are moving pretty fast already.

The process of _actually_ moving out of the cabin is strangely difficult. There isn’t much to pack at all, his belongings fitting right back into the two suitcases he stuffed them in the night he moved out of his and Lisa’s house. And yet Dean finds himself lingering, fingertips tracing paths over dusty furniture, the corner of his eye snagging on the ghost of a memory as he surveys the little room he called his for a while.

It ain’t much to look at, never has been really, but he can’t quite help himself from looking through the window above his bed, picture the shadow of a branch outside, of Cas’s eyes, the way they had widened in delight. The taste of happiness on his lips, beautiful and carefree and pretending to belong in the circle of Dean’s arms. Content like a cat, like there had been nothing else in the world he had wanted more than exactly what he had.

He expects the memory to be tinged with bitterness and is surprised to find that it isn’t. It sits, pure, untainted, right in the warm place between his lungs and his heart, a weight that anchors him without dragging him down.

“You can come back anytime, buddy,” Garth approaches him once Dean’s all packed up and ready to go, “Castiel too—whenever you guys want.” He says it so emphatically, his eyes so big Dean’s afraid he’s gonna get stuck like that. “Tell him for me?”

Dean leans against the Impala and pretends like he isn’t struggling to look Garth in the eyes. He wishes he was one of those people who know how to say things and really mean them.

“Yeah—uh, I’ll tell him Garth,” he promises, and he wonders how credible he is.

He drives away at six in the morning, leaving behind a city that still buzzes with activity. It looks golden in the rearview mirror of the Impala, a lady putting on her prettiest dress to say goodbye to her favorite stranger. Or at least that’s what Dean tells himself.

It shouldn’t be hard to drive away, leave her with a kiss on the cheek and the promise of a tomorrow they both know will never come; he shouldn’t feel this thread of nostalgia curling tight around his ribs, like it plans to stay nestled there for a long time.

He wishes Cas was there to see dawn light reflected off the buildings; wonders where he is, if he’s okay there.  
Maybe he’s getting soft in his old age.

Volume raised high enough to cover the thready beats of his heart, he pushes the pedal down and doesn’t dwell all the way back to Kansas.

-

Lawrence greets him with one of those early summer thunderstorms that drop sudden in the middle of the day, air thick and frigid. When Lisa opens the door to let him in she seems like the cold has seeped right into her as well.

“You’re late,” she tells him in lieu of greeting, “had to put the kids down for a nap,” she turns her back on him as she walks to the kitchen, she doesn’t smile.

He makes to follow her, confused, an explanation about traffic and rain already on his tongue, “Yeah, sorry, I—”

“Take your shoes off, please. I just cleaned,” she sighs, then crumples on a chair, like the weight of the world sits on her shoulders.

“Right. “Boots off and suitcases dropped in the hallway, he walks up to her. “Everything okay?”

She runs a hand over her face before answering, “It’s been a rough day. Jack has had it with the cast and just keeps complaining about it—all day long. And May apparently pushed someone on the playground yesterday, so this morning I had to sit through a meeting with her teachers, which made me late for work, which pissed my boss off. And you were supposed to be here hours ago, so I told the kids, and then you didn’t make it and they got upset and didn’t want to go down. I just—I’m tired, Dean, this is not what I signed up for.” She looks up at him, and he can see the exhaustion woven in the lines of her face.

And it doesn’t matter that he’s tired too, that his bones hurt and his heart aches, because she’s right. “I know,” he lowers himself into the seat next to her, "But I'm here for the long haul, Lis. I'm here now, I'll be there in Indiana. Things'll get better."

“I hope you’re serious about that, because I can’t do this on my own anymore. And Ben’s too young to take on a responsibility like this. You’re their father, divorce or no divorce, we just—we need you close.”

“Ain’t going nowhere, Lis,” he promises, even as he can’t help but think of someone else waiting for him, far away somewhere.

Her shoulders slump, she nods. “There’s some leftovers from lunch if you’re hungry, then you can go wake the kids up. They’ll be happy to see you.”

Things get better after that, the way they usually do when Dean’s around the kids and can’t help but be caught in their enthusiasm.

Lisa thaws over the next few days, in a slow and sorta awkward process that takes them both a bit to adjust to. Dean doesn’t blame her, swims through a river of guilt so thick he can barely keep his head up to breathe.

It’s weird to be in the same house as Lisa again, to do almost all the same things they used to do and then go to sleep in the tiny guest room at the end of the night, tucked away amongst pictures of family vacations and the ancient computer-printer combo they insisted on keeping “just in case”. It settles him in a way, to know that his kin is all under one roof, safe, close. It’s an itch scratched, a thought at the back of his head finally hushed.  
He wonders where Cas is.

Hope is a fickle master, she comes and she goes as she pleases, and Dean can do little more than just trail after her whims. It’s there some mornings, strong and sure, the crystal clear picture of a new future awaiting him, the silhouette of a person right next to him that looks an awful lot like Cas.

And some nights it’s gone altogether, like it had never been there in the first place. Those nights everything looks dull, every thought of Cas, of what comes after, suddenly foolish and unreachable. Those nights he spins the phone in his palm and wonders if he should delete his number, if all this waiting he’s doing is ever going to amount to anything.

Lisa catches him one of those nights, when he’s weary and his head is pounding and he feels like his thoughts are as sluggish as he feels. They’ve been packing all day long, half the house looks like a warzone and Dean’s got that void feeling in his chest, like he knows what he’s leaving behind, but not what he’s walking towards.

He’s laying down on the couch, the familiar weight of May’s body sleeping on his chest.  
His eyes are glazing over as he watches the credits play on some Disney movie he put on because the kids were cranky and he was too exhausted to be a creative parent.

Lisa pauses the movie and goes to sit by his head, her fingers in his hair are a welcome distraction, “So, what’s wrong?”

“‘M fine,” is the automatic reply he gives her.

“No you’re not. You didn’t even crack a smile at the movie. And you love Lilo and Stitch,” she says it like it’s a matter of fact and it almost makes him smile.

Apparently he’s too tired to even think of some bullshit excuse. “‘S been a while already. How am I supposed to look for someone who doesn’t wanna be found?” He says it to the ceiling, because it’s still too weird to talk about Cas with her.

He feels Lisa’s body tense. “This about Castiel, then?” she asks, and his name sounds strange on her lips. “I wasn’t sure if it was gonna be about him or the move. My bet was on him though.”

“Mmh,” he wishes he wasn’t so easy to read for her. “We don’t gotta talk about that if you don’t wanna, it’s fine.”

“No, that’s—I said I’m okay with it, and I am,” Lisa sighs, scoots a bit so his head is pillowed on her thigh. “As for finding him… Dean, you’re a hunter, finding people’s kinda what you do.”

He snorts, “Haven’t been one for a long time,” and he thinks about a crypt, shadows chasing him, the wild black fear that he had lost Cas, the relief that followed, the kiss.

“Maybe not like you used to. But it doesn’t matter, you’re still good at finding people, especially ones who _want_ to be found,” her fingers rub at his temples now, and his eyelids get heavier and heavier. “He wouldn’t have told you to come looking for him if he didn’t want you to find him,” it sounds so simple, so reasonable coming from her mouth.

“Yeah—Maybe,” he wants to believe her, wants to picture Cas waiting for him, making space in his life for Dean to fill.

“It’s gonna be fine, Dean,” Lisa says, and Dean falls asleep.

-

Sam books a room in town the week of their big move to Indiana, lending his oversized hands and his organized mind to the mess that is packing ten years and three kids and two divorcing adults. It’s strange, to have his brother in such close quarters after so long; even more so knowing that there’s no monster to chase after, that this task is as mundane as it gets.

So they pack and they clean, and in the breaks in between, they talk. About the past decade, and all the little things that happened and they kept from one another

“I think we needed that, to find Cas again,” Sam says at one point, sweaty and dusty and clearing out the tallest cabinets.“Always felt like there was something missing after the apocalypse, you know? Unfinished business I guess.”

Dean thinks of all the time they wasted grieving on their own. All the time Cas spent alone and terrified, struggling. “Yeah, I know.”

“You’ll find him again,” Sam tells him in that knowing tone of his. Dean wonders why everyone feels the need to weigh in on the matter all of a sudden.

“Yeah, well, ain’t never gonna get there if you don’t hurry up with those,” he grunts and Sam rolls his eyes and it’s like ten years haven’t passed at all.

Then May and Jack suddenly run in and they start pestering Sam for piggyback rides and just like that, the moment is gone.

Even with Sam helping there’s so much stuff everywhere, and the more boxes Dean loads on the U-Haul, the more they sprout out, in what feels like an endless game of catch that he’s never going to win.

It’s only by carting off the kids to a neighbor’s place that they manage to get anything done, and even then it takes days before they’re actually all packed up and ready to go.

Sam buys them all pizza their last night at the house, and they eat it over a table of boxes, sitting on the rickety chairs they used to keep outside.  
The twins seem to take it as a slumber party of sorts and quite literally run circles around them until the sugar rush wears off. And Dean’s entire body aches and he’s sworn never to move again in summer, but that night the hope in his chest is a bright and buzzing thing, and Dean can barely wait to get started on everything that comes next.

As it turns out, “next” doesn’t really get to happen for a while. First there’s helping Lisa set up everything at her new place, with her mother living two blocks away and hovering all the time.  
Then there’s moving Dean’s own stuff to his little fixer-upper a few miles out of town.  
Then there’s finding out that there’s a lot more fixing to do than he anticipated, and spending a whole lot of nights folded on Lisa’s new couch.

Somehow, setting up the new workshop ends up being faster and easier than fixing his actual home. In just a few weeks he’s the proud owner of a decently sized space, with all the expensive tools he could afford and room to store all his materials.

Ben gets so excited about the new venue he decides to set up a proper website for him, with videos and pricing lists and professional looking pictures. Dean doesn’t really get it, all he knows is that his inbox keeps pinging with new orders and that apparently word of mouth travels faster than he does.  
Dean Winchester, former hunter, turned carpenter, turned woodworker; who would have thought.

Between working, renovating, and trying not to be a shitty dad; that first summer in Indiana feels both endless and too short. Dean spends it driving back and forth between his and Lisa’s house, to his new workshop, to the kids’ summer camp, to Home Depot.  
In the sweltering heat, he develops new levels of respect for Lisa and her shouldering the whole parenting business on her own for so long.

It’s all worth it in the end, or at least that’s what he tells himself the first real night he spends at his new place, furniture all unpacked, electronics running, silence echoing in every room.  
He should put some music on, enjoy his new place, but in the end he doesn’t. He just walks around the house, fingers trailing on the walls, looking at the empty spaces and picturing all the things he’s gonna fill them with.  
He wonders what kind of furniture Cas likes, if he’s a simple and functional kind guy or if his Silicon Valley time has changed him into a sleek and modern kinda guy. Either way, Dean thinks he can work around it.

The hope swirling in his gut feels a lot like fear that night, an inky depth that whispers cruel things; that he never asked Cas what he wanted to do _after_ , that he doesn’t know if Cas would follow him all the way to Indiana, that he never told him that he needs to be a father first, and that’s non negotiable. That he’s got this pretty little house that sits half empty, waiting for Cas, that he hasn’t decorated most of it because whenever he starts he ends up wondering if Cas would approve of it, so he stops.  
The voice says that it’s all going to fall apart, that there’s no way Dean gets to have everything he wants. He tries very hard not to believe it.

It’s a text from Ben that takes him out of his funk that night; it congratulates him on officially escaping their “Kansas suburbian nightmare” and tells him to enjoy his new place. There’s a lot of exclamation points, and Dean has to wonder why his son is awake after 12am on a Wednesday, but it works.  
He smiles and tells him to try and not enjoy college too much and it’s fine, it’s good.

Before going to bed, he pulls the list out of his wallet, and finally lets himself check off all the items that say “move to Indiana”, “find a new place”, and “set up new workshop”.  
He can’t help but glance at the end of the list, getting closer and closer; the thrill of it and the fear that he can’t run from.

“So, why are you stalling?” Sam asks him one night a few weeks later, splayed on Dean’s new couch, nursing a beer. He has a little smirk on his face that makes him look like the annoying little brother that he is.

“Stalling on what?” Dean asks, even though he has an incredibly strong feeling he knows exactly what Sam’s getting at, “I even finished the guest room for you, got the fancy bedsheets and all, _Samantha_.” Dean smirks, hoping against hope that Sam will take the diversion for what it is and run with it.

Normally, Sam would roll his eyes and volley back some snarky insult, but not this time. “Dean, come on,” and yeah, Dean should have known he wasn’t getting out of this one.

“I know where he is, if that helps,” Sam shrugs, like it’s the most minor of details.

“How—I mean—Why?” he stammers, feeling his own face flush. Which is ridiculous, he doesn’t have any claim on Cas, he and Sam used to be close, it’s only natural that—

“I’ve been calling him every now and then,” Sam admits, “you’re not the only one who missed him these past few years, you know. He was my friend too,” Sam’s eyes are kind and yeah, Dean’s kind of an asshole.

“Look, I won’t tell you if you really don’t wanna know. But it looks like you and Lisa have sorted things out; shop’s up and running, this place finally has working pipes, hell, your divorce papers are filed. Unless you changed your mind, then you’ve got nothing holding you back.”

“I haven’t. Changed my mind, I mean.”

“Good, then do it. Go. Trust me, he wants you to.” Dean can’t help but raise a questioning eyebrow at the surety in Sam’s voice. “I mean, he’s mentioned his _whole_ _address_ three separate times now, so I have a feeling I’m meant to relay the message. He’s not very subtle,” Sam snickers, like Dean’s heart isn’t doing somersaults inside his chest.

“So, uh, how’s he?”

“Well I _could_ tell you that. But I could also just give you the address and you can check for yourself?” And yeah, Dean should not have forgotten who the smart brother is.

“I guess—I mean, yeah, that—that could work,”

And it does.

Dean stops stalling. Which means he doubles down on the orders so he can take a few days off, then spends a whole weekend getting the Impala road-ready, just in case. It actually turns out to be as stressful as it is fun; the twins spraying each other with the hose and taking turns at washing “Daddy’s pretty lady car”, while Lisa is on a well-deserved date with some guy from her gym.

The address Sam wrote on a piece of paper ended up joining the list in his wallet, and since Dean is a pathetic fucker, he takes them both out every night, and stares at the address, wondering what the hell is Cas doing back in Texas.

“Just go and find out, Dean,” Sam tells him, exasperated, the third time he asks. So Dean goes.

He packs the car with the essentials, drops the kids off at Lisa’s place, and drives off, pretending he isn’t about to shit himself out of a strange cocktail of excessive excitement and fear.

Driving feels good, it feels like Cas does; this sense of _possibility_ filling Dean up to the brim, until he’s about to burst with it and all he wants is to go faster, see what comes after, what’s behind the next bend in the road.

The rumble of the Impala is a familiar and reassuring purr under him as he pushes her through one road after the other, a state after the other. He takes a stop in between, because neither him nor Baby are in good enough shape to drive sixteen hours in one go. And there’s a vain part of him that wants to look good, to _feel_ good, by the time he finally sees Cas.

The journey is mostly silent, filled with all the words he wants to utter once he finally reaches his destination. There are words of apology and words of pain, words of desire and words of hope.  
Every version of it starts with “I missed you” and ends in “I’m here now”.

He’s not sure what to make of it, not sure what will come out of this mismatched plan of theirs. It made a lot of sense when Cas said it the first time, strong and beautiful and like he could make Dean believe anything he said. But it’s been months since then, summer has come and gone, and Dean can feel the first few wisps of winter right in his bones.

The road unfurls under his wheels and he thinks about the Cas-shaped nooks in his life, the spaces he carved telling himself they were for him, while knowing it was a lie.  
They belong to Castiel, each and everyone of them, in all their dusty messy glory, bearing the traces of Dean’s hands on them, calluses and splinters and all.

He can only hope Cas will be there to see them, share his space, his things; this _life_ that Dean has blown wide open to make room for him.

The maps on his phone guide him through the Texas hillside; through roads that feel too big and too empty, and then through tiny, dusty ones, where the signal keeps disappearing on him.  
He maneuvers the Impala through all of them, wincing at every rock bouncing off of her and reminding himself it’s all gonna be worth it in the end.

It all looks so mundane when he finally pulls the car in front of a non-descript little house in the middle of nowhere, sitting crooked at the end of the road. Chipped paint and old creaky wood and a small barn looming red in the background. There’s a sense of stillness and calm to it, and yet of restless movement. Crickets and chickens and bees and dogs. And footsteps, light ones, hurried ones, slow, heavy ones.

He wonders if he should be able to tell which ones belong to Castiel and he feels like a fool, sitting in the newborn cold of an early Texan winter, hands clenched into fists, a confession on his lips, a declaration in his heart.

The words weigh like stones on his stomach, like he has swallowed them down already and they’re piling up inside him.  
He tests them on his tongue, rehearsing a moment he has been envisioning in the quietest corners of his evenings for weeks now, maybe months. The worn out leather of the steering wheel whines a little under his sweaty palms as he claws at it like it can give him actual support.  
His own eyes in the rearview mirror look too wide and a little crazed, and he can see a sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“Hi Cas— I missed you,” he says to his reflection, trying to make his smile feel more natural and less like a pained grimace. His heart is beating so loud it covers the sounds of the chirping birds outside.

He puts his hand on the door handle, but doesn’t open it. The cool metal feels charged with electricity now, like the next movement he makes is the one that’s gonna decide the rest of his life. His grip tightens, he wonders if he’s ready.

Suddenly there’s the silhouette of a person —a man— walking towards the car. The sun is behind him, covers his body in shadows, but Dean can still see the ratty jeans and the battered flannel, flapping open in the wind.

Dean sits, watching him get closer and closer, and at some point, he stops breathing altogether.

He knows that walk, knows those shadows, the width of those shoulders. He wonders if that’s it, the sudden sight hidden behind the bend in the road.

He doesn’t really register it when it happens, his brain wrapped too tightly around itself. He sits like a statue of salt and sand, packed tightly, sturdy yet fragile, as Castiel climbs into the car, dropping in the seat next to him unceremoniously.

There’s barely enough time for Dean to feel the shock ripple through his body, thrumming itchy under his nails, down to the back of his sweaty knees, into his knotted stomach.

Cas’s eyes are still so blue, so bright; they lay like stones in the tanned soil of his skin, surrounded by crinkles. The stubble on his face is longer and denser than Dean remembers, and he fixates on the little silvery strands he can see peeking out of it. It makes him smile a small smile, even in his stunned state.

Dean forgets all the words he’s supposed to say.

Cas smiles, gravelly voice rumbling out of his chest and wrapping tight around Dean.  
“Hello Dean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure if you're gonna be mad about the cliffhanger, or happy about the little taste of happy ending lol.  
> Of course I'm gonna hope you enjoyed the ride and that the peek at 'what comes after' was satisfying after all the angst I have put you through <3
> 
> It's been a rough couple weeks for my family (and the world in general to be fair), and I really struggled to focus on this when there was so much stuff going on around me. This story means so much to me, I tried to make this chapter the best it could be, it's not perfect, but I really hope you guys enjoyed the journey to get to this point as much as I did.
> 
> I'm behind in answering comments, but you know by now that I'll get to every single one; they ALL mean a whole lot to me, and 200% were the thing that kept me going when writing was hard!
> 
> I'll be incredibly grateful if you guys decide to leave a comment on this one and let me know your thoughts! (like, really, getting emails with comments is the highlight of my week, I cherish each one <3)
> 
> Only one chapter and the epilogue left to go, and I'm getting emotional!! T_T
> 
> You can come scream at me on [ tumblr](https://flurryflair.tumblr.com/) if you want!


	21. The destination - Cas POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LAST CHAPTER YOU GUYS!!!!! WE MADE IT!!!!  
> ...don't worry the epilogue is there too, but this is the last "regular" chapter, just so you know!
> 
> I'm super emotional posting this, I kinda can't believe we got to this point and I'm so grateful to everyone who's been on this wild ride with me. This chapter means a whole lot to me and I hope it'll soothe all the angst pains I've put you through with this story.  
> So yeah, a new car, new friends, and a new beginning, LET'S GO! <3
> 
> Lotsa love for the real MVPs here; [ tipofmemory ](https://tipofmemory.tumblr.com/) , [ huckleberrycas ](https://huckleberrycas.tumblr.com/), [ wanderingcas ](https://wanderingcas.tumblr.com/) <3 <3 <3

Castiel is good at walking away. He knows this because he has done it before and succeeded. Even when he was leaving behind his beliefs, everything he knew to be true, his family, the man holding tightly onto his heart.

He isn’t, however, good at walking away from Dean.

Something in his brain keeps screaming at him to turn back, to crawl into Dean’s lap and stay coiled there until everything around them finally quietens.

It had been different, that time, ten years ago. That was a pain that burned, bright hot and steady in his gut. It had filled him with righteous anger, warmed him at night, its crackling whispering that he was doing the right thing. Dean deserved better, and Castiel was fine damning himself just so that Dean could have his chance at a happy life.

It’s cold, this time, frozen. It’s the empty space where his own heart used to lay, and Castiel doesn’t have to wonder where it went; he knows it’s with Dean.  
He wonders if Dean knows it, if he feels it beating in the palm of his hand, if he’s being careful with it. Carrying this piece of Castiel with him, wherever he goes.

Then he remembers Evan’s voice on the phone, the defiant quality of it, knowing that he won’t ever be truly free until he deals with his past.  
A clean slate, space, a new life for Dean to come back to.

So, California. Castiel has to get to California. He just has to keep putting one foot in front of the other, line his breaths up, make his heartbeats fall into a steady rhythm and get it done.  
No time for turning around, no time for remembering the tempting curve of Dean’s lips, the taste of his skin.

Castiel is a soldier, and he’ll keep on walking.

He takes to the task with such military precision he has to wonder if it’s a leftover from his angelic days. Except there’s no army to fight against this time, just a crumpled up life to be smoothed out once again.

First there’s the hotel room, packing his belongings and telling himself that it’s okay that some of Dean’s shirts got mixed up with his. He’ll give them back, once all of this is over. And maybe it won’t even matter, maybe they’ll mix up their lives in so many ways they won’t even remember which one belonged to them in the first place.

In between all the clothes, he finds the small worry stone Dean had crafted for him; it sits cold and smooth in his palm and Castiel holds onto it like a promise. He wishes he could sink all his memories into it, an assurance he won’t forget any of them, that time won’t tarnish what sits so clear in his mind right now.

He hopes, he breathes, he keeps on walking.

There’s more than enough in his bank account to book himself a flight to San Francisco, so he does so that same night, sitting on his bed, in clothes that still smell a little like Dean, his lips tingling with the impression of the kiss he left on his skin.

He wonders what Dean’s doing now, if he’s telling Ben about them, bearing the weight of Castiel’s shaky hold on his emotions. He doesn’t think he’s very subtle when it comes to Dean.

The city buzzes below him as he finishes gathering his belongings, shiny and alluring. So when he gets hungry he forgoes room service, and just walks out instead, warm breeze tickling his skin as he looks for a place to eat. He ends up roaming around for a while, mingling with the crowds, feeling the energy of the city like a living thing, twining around his legs with every step he takes.

He eats dinner standing up, watching people go by. For once he has this feeling in his chest, this tiny, rustling feeling, like everything will end up being okay in the end. He looks at the river, flowing unbothered, “I’ll see you again,” he promises.

His flight isn’t until late the next day and he spends the time finally getting to all those emails piled up in his inbox. He pours over the sale documents, trying to find a mistake, a loophole, but there aren’t any. It’s an ironclad deal and Castiel has no authority to challenge it. In the silence of his room he has to accept it; that his company is gone and he won’t be getting back, not as it was.

It doesn’t hurt as badly as he thought it would. It’s a strange cocktail of nostalgia and relief, heat prickling in his eyes and in his throat before he blinks it off, swallows it down. It’s a part of his past folding back onto itself, out of the way, leaving the horizon open once more. He thinks he can see the sun peeking on the other side and there’s trepidation in his chest to find out what happens next.

He books himself a hotel room close to the company, knowing he won’t want to share with Evan. He books it for three days only, and pretends he can’t feel the itch of the unknown future like a tight clutch right at the back of his head.

Sleep doesn’t come easy that night; knowing it’s the last night in that city, the last night in a bed he shared with Dean. He lays awake in the darkness and tries not to picture all the ways this could go wrong.

Somehow it’s less painful than thinking about all the ways it could go right.

-

It’s early morning when he lands in San Francisco; a breezy and sunny day that should make him feel welcomed. Stepping out of the airport doesn’t feel like coming back home. His home feels like it sits inside a man he left behind, and Castiel has to wonder if he’ll ever get to experience the feeling again.

He books an uber straight to his hotel, and not even the constant traffic, or the menial chatter from his driver can make his mind stop buzzing.  
He’s only there long enough to drop his bags off and wash the plane sweat from his skin, and then he’s hurrying back down, to the city, to Green Grace and whatever he’ll find there.

The building looks exactly the same when he finally gets off in front of it, tall and polished and sleek. He glances at the windows on the 12th floor, wondering if any of his old employees are looking at him from above.

Worry stone safely hidden in his pocket, he makes himself move. One foot in front of the other.

Sweat prickles in his palms as the elevator slowly drags its way upwards; he exchanges a few polite smiles with people he barely recognizes and wonders what he’s even looking for here.  
The twelfth floor button lights up before he can decide to get off.

Todd the security guard smiles at him when he swipes his badge to get in. “Welcome back, Mr. Novak. We missed you around here.”  
Castiel isn’t sure that’s the general sentiment anymore, but he nods back nonetheless.

There’s a new sign on the wall, that’s the first thing he notices. It’s a sans serif, impersonal thing that he instantly hates. _Green Grace_ , it reads, a _Sanderscorp Enterprise_. Blood sizzles in his veins, searing away any doubt he might have had left.  
This isn’t his home anymore, maybe it never really was.

It’s strange, to walk the same path he has walked so many times before, to smile at the surprised faces of the few people who recognize him and the confused ones of the many who don’t.  
Evan changed a lot around here while he was gone, Castiel isn't sure why he’s surprised.

All in all, it’s an underwhelming experience. His office sits immaculate and neat, his usual chaos of papers and numbers now set straight by someone else. He gathers the few things that have meaning to him; an old pen from the first shelter he slept at, a framed picture of his classmates at graduation, the three little succulents he managed to keep alive on the windowsill.

He should have expected the knock on the door, but he still feels incredibly unprepared when it happens.

“Well, look who decided to finally show,” is how Evan greets him. There’s a smirk on his face, like he thinks this is Castiel giving up and he’s tasting victory already.

“Evan,” he nods.

“Always knew you’d be back,” Evan’s smile is a twisted and cold thing. “Lucky for you my schedule is pretty clear right now; I’ll sit and listen to your little apology and then we can move on with our day.”

Anger is a shock through his system, “My apology?”

Evan walks closer, shrugging his coat off with the pretense of a casual movement, “Yes, Castiel, an apology. That’s usually what happens when the cheating spouse comes back home, you know, they repent for their mistakes.” He says it slowly, like he’s talking to a child.

“I’m not your spouse,” he spits as Evan rolls his eyes, “and I’m done groveling for my mistakes.”

Evan’s eyes harden, “If not to apologize, then why are you back?”

“Felt like I should hand in my resignation in person,” his voice doesn’t shake and he’s proud.

Evan snorts, “You’re not leaving.”

“That’s all I came here to do, I assure you,” he presses on, watching warily as Evan steps closer, still smiling.

“Oh yeah? Come on Castiel, we both know you’ve got nowhere else to go. Your little tryst was entertaining, but it’s got no future and you know it,” Evan’s smirk is so self assured, like the mere idea that Castiel might be something other than his is laughable.

Castiel feels rage rattle in his bones. “I don’t remember asking for your opinion. I’m just here to get my things, say my goodbyes and settle whatever is left to settle.”

“Oh so you expect me to believe that? That you’d come all the way here just to sign a paper? Come on, we’re both smarter than that. You’re here because you know I did the right thing by selling,” he walks closer, nearly crowding Castiel against the desk, “and because you’re terrified of being on your own again.”

“No. That’s not—”

“Come on, Cassie. You can have it all back, exactly like it used to be. You just have to say it. Say that you’re sorry, you were wrong about the sale and you’ll do whatever it takes to fix your mistakes.”

“That’s enough,” he can feel his heart trying to climb out of his mouth, the telling prickle of anger coiling in his throat. “If that’s what you’re after I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I have no intentions of apologizing.”  
His hands shake with barely contained rage as he turns to grab the stack of paper on the desk. “Here’s my—”

Suddenly there’s pressure on his back, a hand sliding sure on his waist and settling on his hip. Evan’s voice is a warm whisper in his ear, “All right Cassie, you’ve kept up the act long enough. I get it, okay? You’ve finally grown a pair, you want me to know that. Cool, noted.” Evan’s hand is cupping his stomach now, Castiel watches his fingers curl possessively over the fabric, shock paralyzes him.

“It’s kinda hot actually, you coming here all high and mighty and righteous. Whatever terms are on your little paper, I’ll look them over and see what I can do, okay? What is it that you want; a bigger office?” he punctuates his questions with little wet kisses on the back of Castiel’s neck, “a better title?” another kiss on the bolt of his jaw, “or maybe it’s not work related? Maybe it’s some _romance_ you’re after? That can be arranged,” and he’s winding ever closer, grinding his crotch into Castiel’s ass, a hand cupping rough between his legs, “you’re not leaving,” he repeats.

For some reason, that’s what cuts through the thick slab of fog settled on Castiel’s brain. Suddenly every single cell in his body is screaming to get away, to push Evan off.  
His elbow is positioned right on Evan’s stomach, so he whips it behind him, a sharp movement that has Evan recoiling and stumbling back.

“Don’t touch me,” he thunders, relishing in the way Evan’s eyes go wide and shocked.

“Fuck,” Evan grunts, cradling his ribs. Red faced and shaking, he charges back at Castiel, “how dare y—”

He doesn’t get to finish, Castiel’s hand grabbing tight at his throat, forcing him back.

“I need one thing to be perfectly clear, I don’t need _anything_ from you,” Castiel whispers; he can feel Evan gulping under his palm, can see the flash of fear in his eyes.  
“I’ve let you use me for far too long, Evan, and now I’m done, I’m _out_. Fuck your guilt trips and your help and fuck your money too.” Adrenaline pumps through his veins, coils in his muscles, ready to strike again. It takes considerable effort to unclench his fingers and let Evan go.

“There’s something wrong with you,” Evan seethes once he’s let go, heaving for air, “you’re _nothing_ Castiel, not without my money and my help,” his hair flops on his forehead, his face flushed in anger.

Castiel hears the words and he’s surprised to find that they don’t hurt anymore, he forces a breath in his lungs that stings all the way down. “Whatever debt I had with you, I have long since paid it. You already sold everything I had worked for,” he gestures to the space around him, to all the employees outside who don’t even know his face. “I won’t let you hold the past over my head any longer, it’s over. I’m going to get my things from the house and leave, you won’t hear from me again.”

“You can’t just—”

“I can, and I am,” he steps closer, ignoring how his heart is pounding in his chest, “Look, Evan, I didn’t come here to argue. I saw the documents, I know the company I knew is gone. The man I thought you were is gone too, and I don’t wish to chase after any of it anymore.” He walks to the table where his resignation papers sit, “We can either do this peacefully and you can sign these off and let me go, or I can go straight to HR and let them know about what happened in this room just now; it’s up to you. Either way, I’m leaving.”

Evan shakes as he approaches him again, Castiel doesn’t flinch as he rips the papers right out his hands, “You’ll regret this,” he says as he signs on the dotted line, without even reading the terms.

He watches as Evan signs, an instant rush of relief settling in his chest. How the tables have turned.

Evan straightens up once he’s done, finger pointing in front of Castiel’s face, “Mark my words, Castiel, you’ll fail. You’ll fail and you’ll come crawling back to me, and when you do, I’ll shut the door in your face.”

Castiel doesn’t let himself reply, just watches as Evan tames his hair back again, straightens himself into the man he wants everybody to see him as, and leaves the room without looking back.

There’s bitterness in Castiel’s mouth, a rotten thing that tastes like defeat. Knowing he wasted so much time letting himself believe he was the one to see past Evan’s act, knowing that hasn’t been the case for a long time now.

He swallows it back down, chases it away with the picture of everything that’s coming after this, all the possibilities suddenly laid at his feet.

“I’m sorry it ended this way,” he whispers to the empty room.

-

A closed chapter behind him, Castiel moves on.

At first he doesn’t really know what to do. There’s a lot of sitting around, a lot of trying to sleep, and a lot of digging deep inside the bleeding cut that is the memory of Dean. It becomes his favorite pastime.  
Most nights he lies still, wishing he hadn’t told Dean to come find him when he was ready; because now he’s got all this time and all this freedom and there's nothing he wants more than to share them with Dean. And he can’t.

What he can do is wait and hope, and learn the person he is without Evan by his side. He’s excited to find out.

He buys a car, an old and sleek one he thinks Dean would like, because at this point he definitely has more money than sense. Most of his belongings stashed away in a storage unit, he packs the car with whatever’s left and just drives.

Spontaneity isn’t a luxury he’s been able to afford before. It sits on him like a crooked shirt, like he tried his best to make it fit, but still ended up missing a few buttons.

It feels strange to jump on the interstate and only get off when he gets hungry, sitting alone in diners and always ordering the same thing, like he’s trying to come up with his very own list of the best diner cheeseburgers in the whole country.

He likes to think he grows into it eventually, looking up interesting places to visit and driving there just for the sake of it. He sees a lot of interesting things; a small river a few miles off the main road, with the smallest restaurant perched right over it, a long and bright sunset over a field of sunflowers, so many roadside attractions he can barely keep track of them.

Freedom is both incredibly thrilling and overwhelming, taking the time to go through all the different radio stations and figuring out what he likes to listen to. Subscribing to every streaming service and draining his laptop battery watching movie after movie.  
He develops an unhealthy obsession with reality tv he thinks Dean would disapprove of; it makes him smile to think about them bickering on the couch.

It feels new and exciting to be selfish for once, to take the time to really know himself, his likes and dislikes; the person he is when there’s nothing chasing him, no monster snapping at his heels, no hunger wrecking his body and his mind, no guilt gnawing at his every thought.  
For the first time in his very long existence, he’s free.

Memory is a tricky thing. It soothes him sometimes. He wakes up and in the mellow space between sleep and consciousness, he’s Dean’s and Dean is his. Everything is just as it’s supposed to be.

And then he blinks and it’s gone, his bed is empty and his chest is too.

More often than not, it hurts. And it always hurts a little different. There’s the paper cut memories, the tiny things that seemed so inconsequential, and now sting with the fear he might never get them back. Like the way Dean’s knuckles always brushed against his as they walked, knowing that he was there and with a simple swing of his hand, Castiel could tangle their hands together.

Then there’s the ones that burn, a deep, bruising pain that spreads deep into his chest.  
The way Dean’s profile looked from the passenger seat, all straight angles and dotting freckles. The way he always sighed into a kiss. The way he wrapped around Castiel in bed and whispered all his impossible desires in the darkness.

Those are the days when he drives and doesn’t stop; when he keeps on moving until it feels like he’s outrun his own thoughts for the day.

His grief is a nocturnal animal, goes to bed with him when the sun sets; it has weight, it has warmth. It curls on his chest when he lays to sleep, paws scratchy on his throat, over his lips, the semblance of quiet and stillness. And sometimes that’s all there is, a messily carved burrow right in the grooves of his ribcage.

Then sometimes it’s two am, and his grief is suddenly a banshee in his lungs, thick glass in his throat, ripping and shredding until there’s salt burning in his eyes and down his face. He _yearns_ with every fiber in his body.  
What else can he do, but lay there, both victim and accomplice; breathing, weeping, waiting for it to settle down again.

It doesn’t usually have a face, more of a whirling mess of whipping winds and cutting rocks, but when it does, it’s usually Dean’s. Castiel’s grief steals Dean’s eyes; the way they looked under the twinkling lights of the restaurant, wide and glassy and hopeful.  
They pierce him clean through and he knows he deserves it, so he doesn’t fight back, merely welcomes his punishment and pretends everything is normal come morning.

He keeps on driving.

-

He doesn’t really make a plan to stop, it just happens.

He’s not even sure how he ends up there, it’s one of those times when he takes a road he doesn’t know and follows it ‘til the end.

It’s early afternoon, a scorching hot summer day, the glare of the sun melting through the windshield of the car.  
He wonders if Dean would approve of his shenanigans, if he’d laugh, picturing Castiel road-dusty and sweaty, pushing the car on a tiny path he doesn’t know the end of.

In the end, it’s the destination that finds him, not vice versa. He’s squinting in the sun, trying to peek at what’s coming after a steep hill, when an old woman ambles towards the car, waving at him to stop.  
He glances at the rearview mirror to see if there’s anyone else she could possibly be talking to, but the road is completely empty.

The old lady is fanning a straw hat in front of her face, leaning on her cane as she approaches his lowered window. She has long silver hair, flowing down past her waist, golden skin and sharp eyes.

“Hey there,” she says, looking intently at him.

“Hello Ma’am. I must apologize, I didn’t realize this was private property, if you don’t mind I’ll just—”

“Ah, that’s okay boy, ain’t nothing private here.” Her gaze is as intense as the sun on his skin, he squirms.

“All right, so if that’s okay with you—”

“I’m Seti. What’s your name?”

“Castiel. I’m sorry I’ll just—”

“You look like you need some tea, Castiel. It’ll do you good, trust me, I know.” And she proceeds to stare down at him, eyebrow ticked high on her forehead, “Are you in a rush to go somewhere?”

“No. No, I—I’m not,” he stammers, faltering under the scrutiny, “Uh—tea sounds good, I’ll park the car and—” she doesn’t wait for him to be done, turning on her heel with surprising agility and walking back towards the house, like she doesn’t doubt he’s going to follow her. She isn’t wrong.

Car awkwardly parked on the side of the road, he scrambles after her, wondering if this is going to be a mistake.

When he gets to the old house, she’s sitting on the porch, a white and creaky thing that looks like it’s gonna fold under his weight any second.

“You made it, that’s good. I wasn’t sure you were going to listen, you look like you’re quite the stubborn one.” She pats the seat next to her, a rocking chair that looks as old as everything else around, “Make yourself comfortable, you’ll stay a while.”

He isn’t sure if this lady is kidnapping him, but when she offers him a cool glass, filled to the brim with honey tea, he doesn’t think he can refuse.  
He still glances at it, suspicious.

“It ain’t poisoned, if that’s what you’re wonderin’,” she snickers. “Might be spiked though,” and she looks out towards the rolling hills in front of them. The hat is back on her head, providing just enough shade through its frayed edges.

He takes a careful sip and the cool liquid feels heavenly in his parched throat. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he’d been.  
“Thank you,” he mutters, suddenly grateful.

She hums in response, a thoughtful look of her face.  
“You any handy, boy?” She asks at the tail-end of a thick silence, “Dunno if you seen that, but we need some mending around here.”

It feels like one of those questions that hide a lot more than they show, he thinks about it. “Not an expert myself, but I know someone who is. Or I used to,” the words tick careful down his lips.

She turns to him, turquoise eyes and knowing wrinkles deep on her face. “That’s more than any of us can say. You should stay.” She must see the shadow of a doubt crossing over his face, because she raises an eyebrow, “Unless you got somewhere better to be?”

Somehow it feels like she already knows the answer, “No, no I really don’t,” he admits.

“Good, then there’s a room upstairs that’s been empty since Lydia died last spring. It’s got a view of the lake, you’ll like it, water quietens the soul.”

Castiel really wants to ask who Lydia is and why he’s taking her room, and how does she know anything about water and souls, and is she giving him a _job_?

Before he can ask, she’s standing up and making her way into the house. It looks shadowy and cool inside, and Castiel really wants to go with her.

“Follow me boy. Remember, you’ve got nowhere better to be.” She doesn’t turn to check that he’s behind her, “Be quick now, the others will want to meet you.”

He doesn’t get to ask who the others are, but it’s okay, because he gets to meet them soon enough.

As it turns out, there isn’t anything outwardly or mystical about Seti, the house, or any of its inhabitants.  
“We’re a band of misfits,” Jose tells him the first night as he’s grilling fish in the backyard.  
“Old farts, to be exact,” Adriel adds, dark eyes twinkling with childlike mischief that shouldn’t seem so fitting on an old man’s face.

Castiel smiles and pretends he isn’t as confused about the whole thing as he is. He eats his fish and it’s delicious, he stops feeling the need to ask questions.

In the end, it’s Connie who tells it in a way he can understand, “We came here because we had nowhere else to go,” she rolls up to him, the wheels of her chair whining with effort, “people don’t have time for old folks nowadays, you know. My daughter lives in Canada, she has three kids, she works too. I didn’t wanna die in a concrete box, so I came here. She thinks it's an old folks home and I never corrected her.” He starts pushing her up the steep path towards the garden, “We self-manage, pool in our pensions to buy food and meds, and if we die, we die, at least you can see the sky out here.” He nods like he gets it even though he’s probably not equipped to, he resolves to fix the crooked wheel on her chair.

There’s so much to do around the property that Castiel is barely left with enough time at the end of the day to dwell on his situation.  
There’s gardens to tend to, paths to be dug, windows to be sealed and wheelchairs to be repaired. The work keeps coming to him, one little fix after the other, until he stops waiting for them to ask for something and just does it himself.

He does an okay job, most of the time. It involves a lot of time spent watching very specific videos on YouTube, and becoming deeply acquainted with the online DIY community, but it works.

There are missteps, a lot of them, the ups and downs of his messy learning curve. There’s the time Castiel forgets it’s summer in Texas and decides to repair the patio steps without sunscreen on. He ends up with the worst sunburn he’s ever had in his life; skin tight and swollen and painful, so uncomfortable he’s unable to do anything more than lay on his belly and be miserable.

When he skips dinner that night, Seti goes to find him; scolds him for being so unkind to his skin, then applies layers and layers of the most heavenly oil on his flaming shoulders. The pain immediately starts dimming and Castiel almost weeps with joy.

She lays a wrinkly hand on his head, halfway through a scolding slap and a reassuring caress, “Be careful with yourself boy, there’s people who need you,” she says. Castiel wonders if that’s how it feels to have a mother.

There are victories too, like the time they all laugh at him when he announces he’s going to set up a chicken coop in the backyard, and then have to eat their words when he emerges victorious after three days of intense labor. The little ramp is crooked, but the first chicken that tries manages just fine, and so do all the other ones that end up joining it.

“Good job, cherub,” Connie congratulates him, then makes him bend over so she can pinch his cheek.  
Castiel’s so pleased with himself that he doesn’t even fight her on the silly nickname she chose for him; he struggles to wipe the little smile off his face for the rest of the night .

He’s helping, he’s making this place better than he found it, he’s making someone happy. It’s a different kind of impact; it doesn’t have the weight leading Green Grace and its projects used to have, but it’s good nonetheless, it matters, it makes him proud. It’s enough for now.

The residents become a family of sorts, he listens to their stories and plays their games and in turn they listen to him. He talks more than he ever has before, and the more he says the more he finds he has to say; he has stories and opinions and it’s okay if they don’t always make sense to anyone but him.

The fear of getting things wrong, of screwing up some fundamentally human trait, it finally disappears. It’s strange, it’s been with him so long he almost feels as if he doesn’t know who he is without it. But here there’s no Evan to judge him for his lack of practical skills, no one bats an eye when he starts musing about the sky and everything it holds, or when he forgets how to use a kettle. “It’s okay, we forget too,” someone tells him early on, and Castiel doesn’t think he’ll ever stop being grateful.

Maybe that makes him a misfit too, but he’s okay with that.

He tells Sam so the first time he calls, then listens to his confused chuckle over the phone.

“You sound happy, Cas,” Sam tells him, and Castiel is surprised to find that he’s right.

 _I could be happier_ , he thinks as he pictures Dean, but he doesn’t say it. Somehow it feels like Sam already knows.

Sam is smart, and kind, and Castiel has missed him incredibly for a long time; he enjoys their talks. Enjoys them even when they bring back memories that he tries his best to stay away from, because no matter how much he thinks about him, he’s not going to be able to summon Dean back into his life, not before he’s ready.

Those nights he sits outside, sips on the tea that Seti keeps on making day after day, and lets his thoughts run free, just for a few minutes. Lets them run through dusty roads and grassy fields to find Dean, knock on his door and just look at him for a moment. Take him in, the sunny quality of him, the warmth of his skin and his gaze.

It hurts and it helps, and the next day he’s ready to do it all over again.

-

It’s hard to miss when a car rolls up their way, the road too tiny and too isolated for it to be a mistake.  
He’s kneeling in the dirt replanting some flowers with Seti when he hears it; the rumbling purr of an old engine getting closer and closer, and Castiel just _knows_.

His heart drops somewhere down to his stomach, leaving his chest empty, an echoing chamber for the longing that blooms inside him.  
He stands carefully, holding the air in his lungs, knowing that when he breathes out everything is going to be different.

Seti looks at him questiongly.

“He’s here,” is all he says, wetting his dry lips.

“Good, it was time,” she smiles, “go boy, what are you waiting for?” she gestures with her cane, and Castiel isn’t about to disobey her, not when he can feel a magnetic pull in his belly, dragging him to where the Impala is pulling up to the house.

Gloves tugged off and stuffed messy in his back pocket, Castiel makes his way up. He resists the urge to fix his appearance; he looks different and he knows it, but it seems futile to worry about such things when it’s been months since he’s seen Dean and he _hungers_.

The car gleams alluringly in the sun, and Castiel can’t wait to see the door open, Dean climbing out and towards him. He fully expects to meet him halfway, but that’s not how it happens; the car sits silent and still, the door never opens.

Whatever lays behind it, Castiel needs to know, he’s waited long enough, longer than he thought he had the patience for.

He can see Dean’s face through the windshield; he’s bathed in honey light, biting his lip, wringing his hands; Castiel can’t wait any longer. He opens the passenger door and sits down next to him.

“Hello Dean,” he says, and the way the emotions play on Dean’s face is a gift in itself. He looks stunning, shadows painting the grooves of his skin, his lips. Castiel wants to kiss him.

“Cas—I—” he stammers, his mouth glitching a little, like it’s unsure whether to settle on a smile or a frown, or to try and form words. Castiel feels a chuckle rumble its way through his chest, his eyes are prickling with joy.

Dean blushes some more, “Uh—sorry I—there’s just so much, I don’t—” his voice hitches in a way Castiel isn’t used to hearing, he takes pity on him.

“Dean, it’s okay,” he smiles, laying a hand on Dean’s knee and squeezing a little.

Dean seems to relax a bit at that, breath whooshing out of him. “You grew a beard,” is what he says eventually, his knuckles brushing soft against Castiel’s cheek. The movement is slow, deliberate, like he’s giving Castiel all the time to move away if he wants to. His fingers shake a little against Castiel’s skin.

The touch feels like Dean’s somehow breaking through all the layers of tissue and nerves and muscle, to reach the very core of him, where Castiel aches for him.  
Castiel wants to lean into it, grab at it and never let it go. So that’s what he does; he wraps his fingers around Dean’s wrist and turns his face into Dean’s palm, until his lips brush against the soft skin there.

It’s a feather of a kiss, but it seems to crack something open in Dean.  
His eyes start to melt, his whole expression shifting into something so soft and so open Castiel barely feels like he’s meant to witness it.

“Fuck, Cas, I—I missed you so much,” Dean’s voice is a splintered whisper, barely audible, his thumb rubs gentle circles on Castiel’s skin. Castiel wants to taste him.

“May I kiss you?” he hears himself asking, already leaning into Dean, peeking into the awed expression displayed on his face.

“Please,” Dean’s eyes are hooded and bright and a gaze like that could make a kingdom fall. Castiel crumbles for him and he’s happy to do it.

Their lips meet in the middle; a soft, determined clash of armies that want nothing more than to surrender.

Castiel can’t help the sharp inhale of breath when he finally tastes Dean on his tongue again. Can’t help but pushing forward, licking into his mouth, fisting his hand into Dean’s hair and holding his face impossibly closer.

Dean moans into his mouth a little and Castiel wonders how he’s managed to survive for so long without hearing the sound.

When they part Dean leans his forehead against his, “God, why did I wait so long,” he says, and Castiel laughs.

They should detach, maybe go inside, sit down with a table between them and figure things out. But having Dean so close is addicting, and Castiel can’t drag himself away; need pulses in his veins, throbs in his heart.

Being in Dean’s presence, after so long, it’s like being hit by a stray ray of sunshine after getting used to laying in the shade. It’s that first wave of goosebumps, skin all standing to attention, leaning in, yearning to soak that mellow warmth. Being warm again after forgetting you were ever cold in the first place. And things in the shade weren’t so bad, but they weren’t sunshine bright either.

“I had a whole speech prepared, you know,” Dean murmurs then kisses him again, softly, “was gonna tell you how sorry I was that it took me so long to get my shit together,” another kiss, Castiel smiles into it, “how I thought about you every single day,” kiss on the corner of his lips, “I was gonna be real smooth and all.”

“Are you saying I ruined your grandiose plan of sweeping me off my feet?”

“Yeah Cas, that’s exactly what I’m sayin’.”

“Well, I’m not sorry.”

“Yeah, neither am I,” Dean smiles and ducks his head, tucks himself tighter against Cas’s body.

It’s not the best position, but it allows Cas to bury his nose in Dean’s hair, inhaling slow and deep. Dean smells good, he smells like home; tears prickle in his eyes.

He’s not sure how long they stay there just letting their heartbeats slow down, getting used to the idea that they’re finally close and they’re not parting anytime soon.

Something settles in Castiel’s chest, sitting cramped on the creaky leather of the Impala, something he hadn’t even known was loose just clicks right back into place.

“You found me,” he whispers eventually, awed, and Dean squeezes him tighter, then raises his head to look at him in the eye.

“You said it was a date,” he grins, boyish and irresistible, warmth swimming in his eyes.

And it doesn’t matter that it’s winter already, that there’s no cicadas and no flowers and the sun is too far to warm them up; it feels like spring in Castiel’s chest. He feels it dawn inside him, a light that gleams and soothes and makes him want to kneel in the dirt and thank the universe for it.

He can’t find the words, not when he looks inside himself, not when he searches Dean’s face. The feelings bursting inside him feel sacred, like he’d only tarnish them if he tried to speak them. He can only inch forward again, cradling Dean’s face in his hands and holding him as close as he dares. Dean lets him, leans into him like it’s the most natural thing, and maybe it is.

“Dean—” he starts, not knowing what he’s going to say.

Dean stops him, puts a finger on Castiel’s lips, tracing the contours of his mouth slow and trembling. Time swells right in the tight confines of the car, Castiel is still waiting for him.

“I love you,” Dean breathes finally, a barely audible whisper that dives straight into Castiel’s chest, curls around his heart and grows roots there. Fireflies blink alive inside him and he sees their light in Dean’s eyes too.

“I love you too,” he says it quietly, surely, feeling like maybe that’s what he was meant to say all along, like it’s been true from the very first moment they met and they just had to wait for it to grow.  
Now he gets to watch it bloom.

Dean gives him a rare toothy smile, then sniffles and hides his crumbling face into Castiel’s neck. He feels Dean’s tears wetting the soil of his skin, he holds him tighter.

“I love you,” he says it again. Murmurs it right into Dean’s ear and feels him shiver against him.

He doesn’t stop saying it for the rest of the night; when Dean’s blushing at Seti’s questions, when he’s walking though the house and praising Castiel’s amateur repairs, when he’s looking at the stars outside and smiling.

He says it all the way upstairs, tucking Dean close against him under the covers, hiding him from the chill outside. Laying close in the silence, the weight of Dean’s body holding him steady, holding him still.  
Castiel doesn’t have to run anymore, doesn’t have to walk anymore, he’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.

He stops, Dean stays.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .....  
> ...  
> That was the "author cried a little bit writing this" pause <3
> 
> What to say, I hope with everything I have that this ending feels satisfying after all the pain the boys have been through. I don't think any of my betas ever want to hear the phrase "BUT I DON'T WANNA DISAPPOINT ANYONE" ever again lol.  
> This is how I pictured Cas's new chapter in life, changing and growing and getting rid of everything that was holding him back. For me it wasn't about revenge, it was about growth and freedom and I hope you guys saw that too <3
> 
> Before I get too sentimental, there's still going to be an epilogue so don't say goodbye quite yet!
> 
> THANK YOU for getting this far with me, life is still being kinda crazy but I'm so grateful for this story and you guys!  
> And I know I say this every time but really, comments are my fuel and my number 1 source of motivation, if you decide to spend some time to let know you what you thought of this I'll LOVE you forever and you'll make my whole entire day <3 <3 <3
> 
> Also, come say hi on [ tumblr](https://flurryflair.tumblr.com/) !


	22. Found - Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is actually happening and I'm so sad but so excited at the same time?? I just can't believe this story is about to be over, I'm genuinely tearing up a little posting this!
> 
> This epilogue is sweet and very self indulgent, because that's what I needed after all the ups and downs we have all been through, both with this story and with life in general.  
> If you're reading this, THANK YOU, I really hope this is what you've been waiting for, see you in the (LONG) end notes <3 <3 <3 
> 
> Of course I gotta thank the amazing ladies who helped me put this together; you listened to me complain and angst about this story for MONTHS, and I couldn't have asked for better people to join me on this crazy ride. This story would not be the same without your patience, support and advice! [ tipofmemory ](https://tipofmemory.tumblr.com/) , [ huckleberrycas ](https://huckleberrycas.tumblr.com/), [ wanderingcas ](https://wanderingcas.tumblr.com/) <3 <3 <3

They end up staying at Seti’s house for a few days, and both of them are proud to say they even make it outside of Cas’s room most of the time.

It isn’t easy; there’s nothing more they want to do than to stay wrapped up in one another until they have learned every new wrinkle, touched every patch of skin, every scar.

It feels new, this thing between them — something tender and delicate, to be nourished, cared for. It’s Dean not letting himself fall asleep, too busy staring at Cas’s profile in the dark, afraid that he’s going to disappear as soon as he closes his eyes.

And it feels old too, like it’s always been there, thrumming just under the surface, sure and strong and eternal. It’s Cas, asleep, turning into Dean instinctively, curling around his body and settling there like that’s all they’ve been doing since they met.

The people around them can sense it too, they all accept Dean like an extension of Cas, a natural one that doesn’t need to be questioned.

They all show up for them in different ways too.

Jose cooks for them, insists on teaching Dean how to grill properly because Castiel is inept at it and “Someone’s gotta feed that boy.”

Connie takes to following them around and telling them all about the history of the house; it’s so outlandish and borderline insane that they both end up believing her.

Seti just oversees everything, always ready to offer a smile and some cryptic wisdom. She looks at Cas like he’s her son and he ends up feeling like it a bit too.

Then there’s the occasional teasing remark that has Dean blushing and spluttering and walking away as fast as he can while Cas chuckles along.

“You’re new to them; they want to see you squirm a little, that’s all,” he reassures Dean the second night after dinner, cradling his flaming cheek.

“Dude,” Dean hisses, “she just asked me if I wanted honey for my voice, because, and I quote — _it sounded so high pitched last night_! I mean, do old people have no boundaries anymore?” And the blush on his cheeks grows even deeper.

Castiel laughs. “It’s quite easy to make you squirm,” he grins, then kisses the outraged expression right off Dean’s face. “I like seeing you flustered,” he whispers then, emboldened by the way Dean’s breath hitches a little.

_This_ is new, this easy banter, being able to say just how much Dean excites him and not having second thoughts about it. Castiel wonders if he’ll ever get tired of the thrill of it.

Watching Dean bite his lip and then hurry up the stairs, ignoring the knowing laughter around them, Castiel doubts that’ll ever happen. He follows Dean up and he doesn’t think about it for the rest of the night.

When the time comes to leave the house, Cas takes it harder than he expected. He can’t wait to start his new life with Dean, wherever that is, but he can’t help but mourn the loss of this tiny corner of the earth he had carved out for himself.

“This is good, boy,” Seti tells him as she watches him pack his bag. “He’s the next chapter of your life, and it looks like it’s gonna be a great one too.” Her eyes are kind and knowing, and Castiel wishes she could just unravel the knot he feels lodged in his throat.

“I’ll—I’ll miss you,” he manages, his voice shaking a little. He doesn’t look at her, but he feels it when she walks closer, lays a hand on his shoulder.

“We will be here for you, if you ever need to come look at the sky for a while. This place belongs to you, but it isn’t your home. Your heart knows that too, that’s why it’s heavy.” She says it like it’s a matter of fact, like she could reach into his chest if she chose to and feel the weight of his heart on her palm.

He nods, then turns to hug her, buries a couple tears in her soft scarf. It feels like he’s always going to miss her a little bit, but maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to go; letting love flow into you, fill you to the brim, and then letting it flow back out.

So Castiel goes, he hugs all the residents, lets his wet eyes match theirs and doesn’t shy away from all the hugs and the cheek pinches and the little friendly jabs at his and Dean’s relationship.

His heart is heavy, yes, because it’s so full, and he’ll carry these people within him wherever he goes.

He wants to tell them so, but the words are stuck in his throat. He stammers, leaning against the car, chill seeping in his bones everywhere Dean’s hands aren’t touching.

“I’ll bring him back,” Dean promises, leaning down to hug Seti to his chest. Castiel didn’t know he could love him more, but somehow he does.

“I know you will,” Seti smiles, and Castiel believes them both.

And bring him back Dean does. At least once a year the both of them will get into the Impala and drive all the way down to that little crooked house in Texas.

They both get enjoyment out of it; Castiel gets to see his chicken coop make it through the years, and Dean takes to bringing samples of his furniture to the house, pretending they’re extras he doesn’t know where to put. He builds a new ramp here, leaves a beautifully carved nightstand there, soaks the compliments in like a sponge and delights everyone with his blushing cheeks.

There’s the one memorable summer when they bring the twins with them, for a week of relaxation and nature; which turns out to be a week of long, sweaty walks and the kids learning how to knit from Connie, and how to swear from Bill.

And there’s the time they don’t like to talk about. The one when Cas drives down by himself, in his own car, with heavy bags and a heavier soul. That’s the time it feels like no matter how much effort and care he puts into this family, he’ll always be on the outside looking in.  
When his business is struggling and Dean is coming out of a health scare that made him withdraw so far into himself that Cas could barely see the outline of him under all the worry and the pain.

That time proves to both of them that being away from each other doesn’t always help, that Cas can pretend he’s fine, that Dean’s silence doesn’t hurt, that he doesn’t miss the kids, but it doesn’t make it true.

“He’s hurting, and he’s hiding from me, and I don’t know what to do,” he laments to Seti one night, after she’s gotten him tipsy on hard cider.

“People don’t like to be reminded of their own mortality,” she tells him, and he’s almost irritated at her calm demeanor.

“But he’s fine. Three separate doctors cleared him, he’s gonna be okay, there’s no reason to—”

“Fear isn’t a reasonable thing boy, you should have learned that by now,” she scolds. “Right now he’s happy and he’s healthy and he’s terrified he’s gonna lose it all one day.”

“So what do I do?” he whispers, feeling like a small child who has lost his way.

“You go find him, like he found you,” she tells him, and she makes it seem so reasonable, so easy.

So he listens to her, drives all the way back to Indiana two days later to find an anxious and skittish Dean waiting for him.

“I love you,” he tells him, “and I’m not going anywhere.” Dean scoffs and tenses up at his words, but Cas doesn’t give up.  
“I’ve come to find you in Hell, Dean Winchester, and there isn’t a place you can hide that I won’t reach, remember that.” He pushes all the conviction he can muster into his words, stares Dean down until he stops looking like he’s going to sprint away.

“I’m scared of how much I love you sometimes,” Dean whispers, his voice cracked in the middle. “God, I sound like an idiot, I—”

“Stop that. I’m not going anywhere, and you aren’t either. There are way too many things we have left to do together.” He pushes out a wobbly smile, and kisses the corner of Dean’s mouth. “You haven’t even married me yet, don’t think you can get away before I get you to promise me eternal love in your prettiest suit in front of everybody we know.”

Dean does laugh at that, and Cas pretends not to see the tear that escapes his eye.

“We’ll be okay,” he whispers, and they are.

\----

When Seti goes, it’s with Cas by her side; her small wrinkly hand cradled in his big one, ever so gently; drying his tears and telling him she’s merely going back to the earth, that she’ll still be right there, sleeping under the big sky, waiting for him to visit and tell her all about their mismatched family.

Even _after_ , she’s never truly gone, her memories too bright, her grace too precious; it sits within Cas, it’s in the things she taught him, the love he shares with the kids.

Dean sends a thought out for her every now and then, thanking her for finding Cas, taking care of him when he needed it and Dean wasn’t there.

“She made me feel like I belonged here, to earth, to humanity,” he tells Dean through his tears as they scatter her ashes to the wind, “I hadn’t felt that before.”

Dean thumbs his own tears away, tells Cas he does belong here, with him; he resolves to remind him of that every single day.

\----

Getting Cas to move to Indiana is easy; getting him to fit in with Dean’s family isn’t as easy.

It’s not for lack of trying either, everybody does their best to make the transition smoother, but there are times, many of them, when their best just isn't enough.

Lisa tries to like Cas, but Dean can tell that she doesn’t, not really. Their interactions are stilted, awkward. She watches his every move the first few times he interacts with the kids, which makes Cas even more nervous.

It’s clear he’s never been around kids, treats them like mini adults because he doesn’t know any better. Dean thinks it’s hilarious, the kids do as well, but he knows Lisa disagrees, can see her biting her tongue and scowling at him out of the corner of his eye.

“You really need to work on your toddler talk, bud,” Dean tells him after the fifth or so time he refers to the twins as “little sir and little ma’am”.

Cas just ruffles up a little, chest puffing up, “I’m just being polite, Dean,” he glares and Dean doesn’t have the heart to correct him.

All considered, the twins are fairly easy to win over, their love as strong and uncomplicated as they come. Castiel brings them toys they don’t always like, and one or two get tossed to the dog pretty quick, but he’s relentless in his pursuit of their approval.

It sets Dean’s heart on fire in that gentle, slow burning, smoke choking kind of way that makes it impossible for him not to kiss him stupid.

Jack is so immediately taken by Cas that Lisa almost faults him for it. It happens right when they first meet, Cas sweating in the new linen suit he insisted to buy, even though Dean assured him time and time again that nobody would care about his attire.

So there Cas sits, eyes wide and little wild, fixed on the small creature now squirming in his lap, sticky hands fisted in his crisp lavender shirt.

“Wanna see my squishies?” Jack asks him, stare open and hopeful, dragging him to his room without waiting for an answer.

When Dean and Lisa finally go to check in on them ten minutes later, they find six feet of Castiel crammed into a tiny pink plastic chair, a tiara shoved messily in his hair, his tie all but undone, replaced but a seemingly endless string of shiny plastic beads.

“It’s a tea party!” Jack screeches, holding two empty cups decorated with crayon and glitter.

The picture Dean takes then ends up sitting front and center on the desk in his studio years later, right between the one from their wedding where Dean is crying and Cas looks like a model, and the precious one of the twins at Seti’s house.  
Tucked in like a secret of the mellow heart that lays underneath all the strength.

May isn’t as trusting for some reason Dean has yet to figure out; she watches Cas avidly, but always from behind Dean’s legs. She giggles at his antics but if he tries to involve her in it, she shies away.

Cas tries not to take it personally, but he does, just a little.

He takes to this new task of getting May to like him like it’s his new job.  
He doesn’t tell Dean, but it’s clear that he feels like he has to measure up to Lisa’s expectations, like he has to prove to both of them that he does belong in their family.

So he reads books about parenting and then hides them in weird places around the house, where he thinks Dean won’t look.  
When Dean asks why, all he says is “I know I’m not their father, I’ll never be. I don’t want to take anyone’s place, they already have parents and I know I’m overstepping, but I just—I-I love you and I love them too and I want to be _good_. Good to you, good to them.”

Dean kisses him stupid after that, because what else can he do?

“You _are_ good Cas, so good,” he tells him, and Cas ducks his head and lets himself believe it.

The first time May hugs him and falls asleep on his chest there are genuine tears in Cas’s eyes, and he has to blink a hundred times, but they still don’t clear out. It feels like a privilege, like he’s being chosen, trusted. Her love is hard won but so worth it.

It never waivers after that, and Cas becomes the first one she calls when she’s faced with a difficult decision, the only one she will talk to when she’s fifteen and angry at the world, the one who secretly takes her to get her first tattoo and who buys her ice cream after her first breakup.

Then there’s Ben. Ben takes to Cas like a bird to the sky. He’s skittish at first, eyes him a little suspiciously, frowns at Dean whenever Cas says one of his weird things, like saying “this guy, really?” Dean always smiles and shrugs when that happens; _that guy, really_.

Cas, for his part, is fascinated by Ben, can see his intelligence and his drive, can picture the man he’s going to be even better than Dean can sometimes.

He’s there for him when Ben gets into UT, and for every single stats-related meltdown since.  
He’s the one who pushes him to never doubt his intelligence, to call his old contacts in California and help Ben find the internship of his dreams.

Years later, when Ben has climbed the ranks of the company, Cas is the one who gets called for “external consults”, the one who gets to sit in front of the board and school them on whatever issue Ben has raised.

It all ends up fitting together, the puzzle of their not-so-little-family; all their corners levigated by the years and the love and the sheer stubbornness they all have to just make it work.

Even Cas and Lisa get along in the end; they go from being skittish strangers, to being allies, to being friends. The first time Dean finds them giggling together, complicit, full glasses of wine and deep belly laughs, he almost cries.

Life is full and it’s messy and it’s good.

\----

It’s not until a few years after the initial move to Indiana that they get out of the fixer upper and buy _the house._

It’s an old house, tall and swooping lines, stark white against the blue sky. It has the wraparound porch of Dean’s dreams, and sits on the sleepy slope of a small hill overlooking long fields.

They get it because Cas’s eyes get so big and round the first time he sees it, his whole body thrumming in excitement. He doesn’t tell Dean how badly he wants it, but Dean reads it in the way his fingers clench and unclench around nothing, the way his teeth sink into his bottom lip, barely containing the joy thrumming underneath.

And Dean likes it too, it’s rustic enough to remind him of Garth’s cabin, and big enough to host all the kids when visiting. There’s history, lives well-lived and well-worn in the grooves of its wood, and it feels like they’ll be able to add it to it, sink their hopes, their love, in the bones of this little wooden house at the top of the hill.

As an added bonus, there’s an old barn that Dean gets to turn into the workspace of his dreams, bigger and better than anything he could have imagined. “Wayward Furniture” he calls it, and even gets Sam to help set it up.

He registers the company and hires the first two of what will soon turn into many employees: an army vet who says about five words a day but carves the most delicate flowers, and a fresh-out-of-art-school girl who has the most outlandish ideas and actually manages to make them all work. Together they get through a constant stream of new orders and clients and Dean reluctantly admits that learning how to delegate isn’t that bad after all.

In the end it makes for a solid business, one that covers those patches that Ben’s scholarship leaves open, and by the time the twins are college-aged, the business is steady enough to pay for it, and Dean has to accept that maybe he’s good at more than just chasing monsters.

The first beehive comes a few months after the house does. It’s both too soon and too late, depending on who you ask; it’s sooner than Dean was hoping for, and later than Cas had planned for.

It’s a good day, the day it comes. It’s almost spring again and there’s that smell in the wind that promises nothing but good things. Dean fills his lungs with it until he feels so full he might burst.

Cas frets around the whole time, muttering to himself about the sun’s position during the day, wind patterns and not losing the queen. It’s best to let him be when he’s like that, Dean has learned, to step away from his path and make himself available for whenever he snaps out of it and comes looking for attention like a lost puppy. And Cas always snaps out of it eventually, and Dean is always ready with arms spread.

It works.

One beehive eventually turns into five, then seven, then Dean genuinely stops taking count of them and just nods whenever Cas explains to him, in excruciating detail, just exactly why they need to add one more.

It means their pantry is constantly stacked with jars and jars of Cas’s honey, the labels sticky and messy, hand drawn at first, and then streamlined and polished after a few years —and a whole lot of money invested in graphic designers and marketing strategies. The business is slow to take off at first, but it doesn’t really matter; Cas has enough money from the sale of Green Grace, and Dean’s company is soon making more than they actually need.

Making honey makes Cas happy, getting his hands dirty and taking care of something alive, something that needs him. He spends most of his days outside, puttering around and talking both to himself and the bees . Dean gets to watch him all dusty and tired at the end of the night, gets to take the clothes right off him and follow him into the shower, that never gets old.

Being a consultant in Ben’s company is the complete opposite, but it makes Cas just as happy. It’s like retaining a part of his past he had thought was lost forever, being involved and knowing he’s contributing to making a difference.  
Dean kinda lives for those times when Cas has to get his formal suits out and get all dressed up on his way to the airport. He always looks so good, so serious, that Dean can’t help himself but kissing him silly until he’s late and grumpy all over again.

\----

Their life is so good that some days it doesn’t feel real. Those are the nights Dean spends on the couch downstairs, because the bed feels too comfortable, Cas’s arms around him feel too _good_ , and he doesn’t feel like he earned any of it.

He needs the discomfort then, the ache in his bones matching the one inside.

It used to happen with Lisa too, and she would always get this sad look on her face, like there was this hidden part of him she could never access. It made Dean feel even worse, and he’d force himself to lay next to her, pretending to fall asleep and then spending the whole night staring at the ceiling and _remembering_.

Cas though, Cas gets it. He brings the good pillows down and leaves the thick blanket on the couch, then folds himself on the recliner for the rest of the night. He doesn’t make Dean talk about it, he doesn’t ask, he’s just _there_ , neck bent awkwardly and snoring a little. So when it’s the middle of the night and Dean starts awake, heart pounding and sweaty, he just has to set his eyes across the room and find his sleeping figure in the near darkness. And it doesn’t fix it, doesn’t erase years of trauma and violence and death, but it helps.

It’s enough in the darkness and it’s everything in daylight.

In the morning they wake up with matching back aches and bags under their eyes; Dean makes Cas breakfast and then lets himself be held until he feels whole again.

\----

They get married, because that’s what you do after you’ve been together for over ten years and you own a house and two companies together. They put up a big tent in their garden, and Cas’s unabashed glee whenever someone compliments his flowers is worth all the hassle they had to go through to set the whole thing up in the first place.

There’s a lot of sleepless nights and a few fights about it, more than either of them was expecting. Cas is anxious and skittish about marriage, but does want it deep down, and wants it to be with Dean. And Dean is disillusioned about the whole thing, tells him it’s only paperwork and they don’t need it to prove how much they love each other. He then has to deal with the heartbroken and demure expression on Cas’s face for the next three days.

When it finally arrives, the day is beautiful, a crisp, blue Sunday morning, flowers blooming everywhere and kids laughing and chasing each other through the stone paths.

They don’t show each other what kind of suits they’re buying and they end up kinda clashing with each other. Cas clad in a crisp bright blue suit that is perfectly splayed over his strong arms, his thighs. Dean in a deep red suit, black lapels and a whole wrap around his trim waist that turns out to drive Cas a little insane with lust.

Dean tucks a white magnolia into the pocket of his suit, and gives Cas a matching one once he gets to the altar, because he is one sappy son of a bitch and he’s done hiding it.

They both tear up a little by the end of the ceremony, overwhelmed in the best way and kissing the happy tears right off each other’s cheeks.

Sam, though, cries more than the two of them combined, and Dean is so happy he barely makes fun of him for it, just accepts his crushing hugs and knows that his brother feels it too. This sense of surprise, the unbelievable quality of the whole day, of the mere fact that the three of them grew old enough to see the grey and the white nestle into each other’s beards, that they get to be this happy and live to tell the tale.

Sam gets it.

“Thinkin’ I might retire soon,” he tells Dean after his best man speech, “can’t leave you two to have all the fun, can I?” And Dean’s heart grows impossibly larger. “I’ve kinda been talkin about it with Garth; setting up a little station somewhere and help other guys out, like, y’know—”

“Bobby.”

“Yeah,” Sam nods, “he’d be real proud of you, y’know,” he grins, and his eyes are still watering a little and fuck being sappy, Dean hugs him again.

“Be proud of you too Sammy,” he says, and he can almost hear Bobby’s answering laugh from the other side.

Cas catches his eye over Sam’s shoulder and smiles like he knows exactly what’s going on, and maybe he does.

They have their first dance to the cheesiest song Dean could think of, just because it makes Cas laugh so hard he has to stop from dancing and his eyes crinkle all the way into his nose in the way Dean loves the most.

Their second dance is with the twins, May’s dress swaying prettily on the floor as Cas twirls and spins her, her hair whipping him in the face, the both of them falling over laughing. As Dean sways awkwardly with Jack, who looks as if he'd like nothing more than to be as far away from the dance floor as he could.

The dancing goes on into the night, people coming and going, glasses being filled and refilled, Dean and Cas getting sloppier and sleepier against each other.

“D’you ever feel, like—” Dean starts, but it’s hard to know where he’s going with it when the world spins around him and Cas’s face is so so close to his.

“Hmm, like what?” mutters Cas, eyes nearly closed, head lulling on Dean’s shoulder.

“Like— like you’d do it all over again. All the crap you went through just to get here, I mean,” he pushes on, frustrated his thoughts are so sluggish on his tongue, “cause I’d do it, Cas. If I knew twenty years ago that I’d get to be here with you today, just like this, I’d do it.”

Cas steps away abruptly and Dean will deny it, but he definitely whines at the loss, “Dean Winchester, are you trying to tell me you _love_ me so much you’d go back to actual Hell if it meant we got together at the end?” Cas’s face does a weird and funny thing, like it’s unsure between a smile and tears.

Dean can feel his cheeks heating up. “Well, when you put it like that it sounds cheesy,” he whines, pawing at Cas’s waist and trying to drag him close once again.

Cas’s laughter rumbles through both of them, “I don’t care if it’s cheesy. I waited millennia to find you, then had to wait decades to have you,” his hands find Dean’s waist and squeeze possessively, “I get to be as cheesy as I damn please,” he grins, then kisses Dean slow and sloppy and definitely on the inappropriate side.  
“I’d do it all over again too,” he says once they part, and Dean’s heart _soars_.

When they sneak out of their own wedding, nobody is really surprised, and if they are they don’t say it.

Cas doesn’t care, just stumbles towards the house, dragging Dean behind him until they’re both giggling and collapsing onto their bed. They lay there, kinda looking at each other, kinda falling asleep, idly listening to the music still going outside, the chatter of the few remaining guests.

It’s warm in that bedroom, and safe; the deep fulfillment mixed with exhaustion that comes after a big day like the one they just lived through.

It soon becomes hard to keep their eyes open, but that’s okay, because this time there’s no rush, nothing lurking just out of sight, nothing to run and hide from.

Bit by bit, breath by breath, they let sleep overtake them, and it’s easy, knowing that they’ll still be there when they wake up, tangled together, found.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 😭😭😭😭😭😭😭  
> ... so how long am I allowed to be emotional about the end of this story? Asking for a friend... 😭
> 
> Seriously, when I started writing this (over a year ago!) I had no clue it would turn into such a complex work; I wasn't even sure I had it in me to write this much in the first place, much less make it interesting.  
> So many people have found this story and followed it and showered me with love and support, and I am so grateful for that. You guys have turned this into an incredible experience for me, during some really rough and strange times too. I hope I did those boys justice, I surely tried my best. Magnolias was my escape and I hope it was yours too, even just for a little bit <3
> 
> THANK YOU, to all the silent readers, to the ones who comment on every single chapter, to the ones who will read this story once it's complete, and the ones who have followed it since day one. I am so grateful for every single one of you <3 <3 <3  
> If you decide to let me know your thoughts about this epilogue, or the story in general, or whatever you want, just know that every single comment makes my heart burst with joy and I'll love you forever!! (Also, it's my birthday in a few days, and that'd be the loveliest gift!😂)
> 
> I am taking everything I have learned writing this and applying it to new projects, and I really hope you'll decide to follow me on those too!  
> So what's next??
> 
> 1- Third installment of the [ Whimper](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1267727) series; I want to give those Dean and Cas the closure and the happiness they need and deserve. Just gonna say it'll include Mexico and Dean getting his beach day ;)
> 
> 2- New long fic, and this time it's an actual AU!! Working title is "250 miles"; Dean and Cas meet as kids in the 70s and they embark on a tiny epic journey of their own. Life makes them lose track of each other, just to bring them back together 40 years later, when their differences are more prominent than ever. They have to navigate their way around all of those, just to find out all the ways in which they are similar too. Half kid fic/half middle aged fic, should be fun! 
> 
> If any of that sounded interesting you can subscribe and it'll alert you <3
> 
> K, I'm done talking now, if you wanna scream at me, you can always do it on [ tumblr](https://flurryflair.tumblr.com/) ! too. Love you guys and I'll see you soon!! <3
> 
> PS: there's an actual woodworking business called "wayward grain", their instagram page is amazing and was absolutely the inspiration for Dean's business, it was just too perfect!


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